Written in Crimson
by PureWaterLily
Summary: She lost her father but gained his wealth. She lost her home but seized a title. She lost her innocence but found her husband—a beautiful husband, even when broken.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Crimson Peak (2015) is a rare film that combines my favorite director, actor, and genre, with the occasional nod to history, technology, and feminist politics. It theoretically should have been everything I wanted, and while parts of it came close, other parts did not. The screenplay and story in particular came short of my expectations. Nancy Holder's novelization, while enjoyable, did not ease my frustration at the film's unrealized potential. So here I am.

Books 1 and 2 of this project took one year, spanning Jan-2018 to Dec-2018. I've decided to release them before finishing Book 3.

Many thanks to amazing **magesa** for making this happen.

* * *

**BOOK ONE**

**WRITTEN IN COURAGE**

* * *

No one ever asked to see her manuscript. No woman, and certainly no man. Her father bought her fanciful paper and fancier pens to indulge her pursuits, but never once flipped past page three of what his gifts brought about. Her work was another stack on his desk, a coveted trophy that was never touched and never heard.

Then there was her childhood friend, Alan. How she practically pushed her writing on him, and he, being the kind-hearted soul, bore through every hour of her readings. She didn't fail to notice how scarce his comments were. How complimentary. How polite.

Not that Edith let such things discourage her.

She spoke to the echoes, letting her pen run across the paper, letting imagination ply her emotions like a violin. The world was a vast place. Surely someone out there could hear her, someone whose heart resonated with hers, capable of dancing to the same steps, the same beat.

_The Atlantic Monthly_ was going to be her instrument to reach just that person. Her envoy.

Fate had other plans.

It was their third meeting, and Sir Thomas Sharpe had just asked to see her manuscript.

It was their fourth meeting, and Sir Thomas had just approached inquiring about her progress on the manuscript.

It was their seventh meeting, and Sir Thomas had just plucked the new chapters of her manuscript from her fingers. The language between them was playful, their gazes fleeting. But the feelings were real. He was truly as excited to read her writing as she was to share it.

They sat under a noble oak tree, sheltered from the hot afternoon and nosy spectators. Edith watched his blue eyes devour her words, watched the lines of childish delight on his face, the way his expression changed in response to every flip of the page, his smile small then wide, open then closed.

Sir Thomas did not stop to ask questions. They were answered for him, as he flipped the pages faster and faster. Around them, autumn leaves whirled, the wind enlivening the ribbons of her hat. Her chest rose in anticipation.

But then, a darkness cast over them. Edith noticed something was wrong. He had fallen into an unreadable mood, strangely removed. Her hopes sank when he finished.

"You killed him." His lips pulled into a thin frown. "A bit cheap, don't you think?"

Her mouth opened. "I am sorry?" He had spoiled her with his praise; she was not used to hearing anything else.

He sighed. "Oh Edith, to come in so magnificently, so _strong_. You can do better than this. This..." He gestured at the chapters, his nose wrinkled.

Straightening, Edith gripped her pride and said tightly, "If it was a happy ending you came seeking, Sir Thomas, perhaps my work was the wrong choice." She seized back her manuscript, trying to hide the redness in her cheeks. "I am sure you will find some other sweet, charming thing to satisfy you."

"I am satisfied by a good story."

His tenacity left her stunned. She had expected him to pardon himself or divert the topic. Anything to placate her, as would be proper after offending a lady's sensibilities. But not only was he utterly unapologetic, he did not even attempt to reign in his tongue.

"I have no qualms with tragedy. But tell me, Edith, was death his only redemption? Or was it the contrived choice of an author who no longer knew what to do with him?"

Her face grew hot, and then hotter still under his searching gaze. She looked away. Perhaps she was the one in need of sweet nothings, if she ran away at the smallest attacks on her dignity.

Still, Edith would not concede, not yet. Any words of his, she would match. "I only write what the character wills," she said. "I cannot save characters just because of my own fondness. It has to be in their motivation to be saved."

Thomas studied her carefully. Nothing could have prepared her for what he said next.

"_... a relentless dreamer. Yet, even in the face of defeat, his will did not wither…"_

Edith lost her voice in a quiet choke. Oh Lord, he had memorized her writing. He was repeating her own words back to her with unforgiving finality. Did he even know how much he was killing her?

_He must._

His expression had gone gentle, as he went on to recite a different passage. It was an embarrassing passage, one that should have never made it to such a late draft. Yet, she had left those words on the page, and he was speaking them to her, without a hint of shame. From his lips, they almost sounded poetic.

He slowly opened his eyes. Watching her again. Watching her as he had in this encounter and all those that came before.

"If he did not want to be saved, then why did he fall in love?"

Surrounded by ghosts, yet he fell in love. He fell in love _with her_. The lady in gold, the embodiment of life, of youth, of spirit. A woman of the new world, a woman of the future, smiling so brightly at him. If there were truly no salvation, then why present him with the promise of one? If there were truly no hope, why torment him with such possibilities?

The brush of his breath against her ear. So close. He was so close, the two of them never having left their waltz. But never closer, forever separated by a space that kept them strangers.

And so, like him, she would have to settle with looking. Looking at the man who had so cruelly taken her heart. The man whose heart she had mercilessly stolen in return.

He may have convinced her, just a little.

She would accept his challenge.

She would rewrite their ending.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind howled, blizzarding whiteness threatening to entomb Allerdale Hall and all its occupants. At the heart of the mansion, the foyer still raged, a place of whirlwind and madness that put the rest of the house in shivers. Doors rattled, slamming open and shut, centuries of decadent architecture and heirlooms hopelessly exposed to encroaching nature.

Edith had barricaded herself in the smallest of all living spaces, as distant as possible from the earlier battlefield. There was nothing for her to create a fire, the meager warmth in her escaping with each shudder. She relied on the dim light filtering through the windows and thick ice to see her stitchwork.

Her hands were unresponsive. Alan's blood had frozen over her fingers. It seemed like the grandfather clock ticked away an eternity between each pull of the thread.

"Alan," she croaked.

Alan had not said anything for a while.

No response still.

Before terror could grip her fully, his head moved. He watched her languidly from the pillows, his skin ill with sweat.

"You're doing great."

He gave her the same clumsy smile she remembered from their childhood. The same words of encouragement he had always supplied whenever she tried something new, something bold. Her one compatriot throughout her adventures in the men's world. Her guiding compass.

A sob threatened to escape her throat. Without Alan, Edith would truly be lost. She couldn't lose him the way she lost her father. She wouldn't.

"Tell me where I'm not," she said.

Alan must take back his kindness. She was not Eunice. She had never studied the feminine crafts. Her inexperience, together with her poor eyesight, made the needle bite viscously, pricking them both.

What she needed now was not her pride. What she needed was her friend, alive.

So tell her where she erred. Tell her how to correct this. Tell her everything she must do to ensure the survival of Dr. Alan McMichael.

He strained for breath. "Deeper then."

She nodded.

The wound was a nauseating sight, not meant for a lady's eye, but Edith studied every detail, carefully working the needle deeper. Any carelessness on her part now could mean the end for her dear friend. If not now, then later. She recalled all the horror stories from Cook, her old maid. The grotesque imagery of an uncontrolled infection. The smell of gangrene. She refused to let Alan meet the same fate as the victims in Cook's tales.

Death would not steal him away. She thought of his healthy, ruddy cheeks, when he pulled her up the orchard trees. How they spied from the branches, two pretend pirates atop a ship mast. His sharp suit and leather bag on the day he departed, off to London for his medical studies. The pinch of his lips as he waved farewell, the bittersweet smile that spoke of how the separation was hurting him as much as it was her, how much she would be missed, even more than his family.

Those memories felt so distant now, like they belonged to another life. Like the characters of a novel her mother read to her at bedtime, a novel whose ending had been faded and forgotten. Or simply outgrown.

Those memories felt nothing more than a dream, and now there was the cold to wake her.

Another howl shook the house. From within the walls came broken noises and elongated wails, the imprints of a history soaked in violence. Shadows moved in the wallpaper. They were all waiting, for when the doctor joined them and the bride soon after. Neither had yet realized that their souls were already half-trapped, that there was no escaping the nightmare that was Crimson Peak.

Edith flinched.

Sensing her unease, Alan clutched her nightgown, the abundance of fabric spilling onto the bed. It was an invisible tug, as if to hold her. So many times he had wanted to hold her. During her mother's funeral. Her father's. He wanted to hold her now most of all, to give her the comfort he couldn't with his graceless words.

Her gaze snapped to his, almost as if, for the first time in his life, this intense desire of his had managed to reach her.

Her eyes were watery. It looked like words were ready to pour out, and she was ready to confess everything.

A knock stole her attention away.

Edith jolted. She stared at the door and the furniture acting as blockade. A silence, before the knock resumed. Polite, hesitant.

"Edith?"

Hearing her name sent Edith's stomach in tumbles. Slowly, she removed herself from the bed, her bare foot finding the floorboards. She proceeded with caution, staring at the door as if expecting a ghoul to burst through or for the furniture to fling itself across the room.

Nothing happened.

It was a risk she took, when she pushed aside the dresser and turned the knob.

A part of her expected to be greeted by an empty hallway, to have hallucinated his voice. Another part braced herself for some cruel semblance of her husband, something incomplete and only half there. Something that was already gone.

To her overwhelming relief, what awaited her was very much solid.

Thomas stood on the other side in visible fatigue, only conscious by sheer willpower. His curly hair was disheveled and powdered by snow, as were the rest of his clothes. He must have braved his way through the foyer to collect everything, which was stacked, tied, and bundled in heaps on his person and near his feet. His hands strained to carry a heavy metal basin of hot water.

Alongside Edith, he replaced the old towels with fresh ones, drew from the new basin and wrung into the old. He had matches, to reheat her needle, and candlewax, to help her eyesight and add to the warmth.

His presence changed everything.

For hours, they worked in silence. Shame kept Thomas from meeting the doctor's gaze. But nothing, not even himself, could keep his eyes from flickering over to Edith. He noticed her chill and wrapped his own blanket around her.

After all that could be done was done, Thomas gave Edith a box. It was small and wooden, with the Sharpe signature engraved on the cover.

As she opened it, he explained it contained the remainder of his family's fortune. Coins, jewels, and whatever left of value. It was humiliatingly paltry, only meant to last him and his sister another season at most, but it should be enough for a train and carriage. Medical care and personnel. Warm places to stay and meals to eat.

He told Edith it was hers. Take it and bring her friend to safety, some place neither he nor his sister would have the means to find or reach.

Turbulent emotions ripped through Edith then. Thomas did not give her the chance to realize them. He gathered the edges of her blanket, wrapping them around her hands.

"You're frozen," he said. His words signalled the end of their discussion. Done. Decided.

He firmly held the blanket, her hands still cold even inside the fabric. They were not getting warmer. Before he could stop himself, he brought them up to his lips for a kiss.

Thomas could feel the doctor's vehemence. He deserved it. Their marriage had been a sham. He had no right to her, had never had any right to her, their every moment and touch a stolen one.

He was but a thief, a parasite who leeched life from the very women who loved him. The very woman he loved.

Once so strong, she was so weak now. She had been pulled down, dragged, one foot sunken into her own grave. Her formerly luscious hair, pinned into a fashionable chignon, had fallen brittle and loose. Her jousting wit had been silenced, sealed by cracked lips and blood-filled lungs.

The sight broke him. He had done this.

And yet, he held her tighter when he should be letting go. He held onto the moment with all his strength, one last stolen moment that consumed the doctor in unbearable envy and despair.

Thomas would know.

He felt the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Quiet.

The blizzard finally left them. Even then, it was no use. The snow had piled too high, keeping them trapped. The wagon would never be able to cut through.

By the time enough snow melted, it would be too late. Alan was fading by the hour. Edith, crippled and feverish from poison, was fated to follow him.

Her only hope was Thomas. He was still on their side, promising them an escape. Repeatedly, he had promised her. She had placed her faith in him back then, but her faith had faltered when day after day she woke up still trapped inside the house, and with more poison inside her.

Would this be another empty promise? She was so faint. Would this be the last time she woke?

But then, he returned to her at long last, after grueling labor and toil. He hadn't eaten, slept, nor changed clothes, his last good coat in ruins. Red stained him up to the knees, his arms too and even his face. It was not a flattering look, and with the shovel, Edith retracted violently at first sight, pale with fright.

Thomas gave a bitter smile. He supposed that should have been the proper reaction to one's murderer. Carefully, he set the shovel down at his feet to show he meant no harm. He had come to fetch them. Their ride was ready.

Edith's expression slowly changed.

She wanted to believe, but she held herself back until she could see with her own eyes what Thomas had done.

The front door opened.

There it was, a strip of red cut through the white, a cleared path. At the gate was not a wagon but a sleigh, engineered and assembled by his own hands in the late night. Where a wheel would not turn, these blades would slice.

The horses reacted when they drew near, then calmed. Thomas helped seat both of them inside the sleigh. There was just enough space for two, shoulder to shoulder.

Edith was dizzy. She inhaled the unpolluted air. They were outside the house. They were finally leaving that damned house. Hopes that once seemed so precarious, so daring, were no longer so.

Alan, her dear friend Alan. She reached for his hand, and he gave her a light squeeze in return, plus a tired smile to accompany. Still here. Still fighting. The tides had finally turned in their favor.

After checking all the reigns, Thomas stepped back. They were all set.

Edith was so overwhelmed, she never noticed how Thomas was looking at her. The excited smile. The sad smile.

Only as the sleigh started to pull did fear hit Edith again, but not for Alan this time. She looked back, searching for Thomas. She found him standing at the mansion gate, watching her. The clay made him look so terrifying, red with sin. But his eyes, they remained blue. They were human, and vulnerable, and impossibly sad.

This experience had changed him, however, and there was something else there now too. It was the look of acceptance.

He may be forever trapped in this ghastly house, but if she were free… maybe that was enough.

It was enough.

The fear inside her trembled, turning to panic, not of him anymore, but for him. The idea of him surrendering to defeat. Of him simply… vanishing.

Did it have to be this way? Was it not possible to bring him with her? Her lungs burned with a need to call out, to say something. But what? What was there to say?

Her heart wept at the answer.

Nothing.

There was nothing to say.

It was too late anyway, the sleigh already pulled from view.

Dark thoughts entered her mind then, the image of Lucille. Had Edith only _stabbed_ one more time. One more puncture… bled her… extinguished her… would her death have freed him? Would it have cleared away all this madness?

Without his sister left to bind him… was it still possible for him to be hers?

Edith covered her mouth to fight back the all-familiar nausea. This experience had changed her as much as it did Thomas. Her mind was spiralling.

Alan. She focused on Alan. Her anchor.

Weakly, she pulled up the fur blanket over him, to shield them both from the winter. The movement caused something to slide down.

A wooden box. The money. Thomas had made sure that was not forgotten. There was something else there too, tucked by her feet. Papers.

She recognized them immediately.

Her novel.

Lucille had burned her manuscript in spite, feeding it into the fire page by page. But Edith… Edith had not written by hand since her arrival in Allerdale Hall, not since the typewriter Thomas had excitedly given her on their first night. Her new work, her revised work, had gone unnoticed on her workstation.

Her work had always gone unnoticed. By the people. By Lucille. But never by Thomas, who went lengths to make sure it was not lost, that this precious piece of her would be returned.

He did always love her writing.

_He won't ever get to read the ending_, she realized.

The ending.

No, no, he had to read the ending.

She thought of the noble oak tree, of his jubilance as he flipped the page. How much her words had entranced him, filled him with the desire to know, to know where the story would go, where it would end.

_He doesn't know_.

_He won't ever know._

Consumed by despair and delirium, Edith reached out and pulled. The horses reeled back.

"Edith? Edith!"

A tumble. Edith's body slammed into the snow. She barely noticed, on her knees, then her feet, then her knees again, half-crawling, half-climbing her way back to Allerdale Hall.

"Thomas. Thomas!"

She stumbled again, her body pushed to its limit. But she was undeterred, numb to the cold, deaf to Alan's calls.

"Thomas!"

She cried his name, repeated his name. She needed him to hear her, to come to her.

"Thomas!"

Come to her. She needed him to know the ending. Doesn't he want to know the ending?

How could he just accept it? That awful draft. So thoughtless, so naive, so unsatisfying. How could he stand it? When the beginning was so good, felt so breathlessly good, exhilarating for them both.

She was about to fall again when someone caught her.

"_Tho-m-mas_," she cried with happiness, clutching onto his arm with all her she strength. He was here. Not too late after all. Not too late.

"Edith, what—"

"I'll b-be back," she told him, staring his eyes, forcing him to look into hers. "Wait for m-me, I'll be back. I'll be b-back."

Her teeth chattered violently beyond her control. She could hear her own madness. She didn't care. She just needed him to understand, tightening her hold. For God's sake, _understand_.

He always had been able to, even when he pretended otherwise.

_So understand…_ she thought, falling, fading. She imagined it was into his arms, caught at the end of an eternal descent.

Reunited.

.

Thomas crossed the threshold back into Crimson Peak. And Edith… far away.

His heart was drumming. If his future had been uncertain before, it was even more so now.

Would it be violent? The villagers bringing weapons and fire, his heart pierced by knife, his neck snapped by rope.

Would it be lonely? Lost in the darkness and distance, unseen and unheard, claimed by the cold and starvation.

Would it be karmic? Two monsters born together to die together, twisted apart by their own lunacy and betrayal.

With Edith gone, whatever act of bravery he upheld was ripped from under. His body trembled, as he nearly collapsed on the stairs. Terrified. He was terrified.

No longer did he delude himself to be a man behind the mask a monster. He was a monster behind the mask of a man. Their mother would attest to that. The skeletons in the vats would attest to that.

Lucille had tried to tell him, every time he eagerly pulled her onto another voyage, another sight of the world. Just to raise capital, she had reminded him. Allerdale Hall was still their proper home, their safe refuge, the world they had to keep from sinking.

Yes, yes, he had replied, but look at the ocean. Look at the colors, Lucille!

So hard Lucille had tried to warn him, to keep them hidden, protected. Yet, so hard he had tried to pull her to see the lights with him, the colors. Sabotaging her efforts. Exposing them both.

Lucille's hair had come loose, her clothes loose, her frightening spirit free and in the open. Her own bindings gone, only to be replaced by the world's, belts pinning down her arms and legs, forcibly strapping her down to the wheelchair.

His sister had finally awaken, her eyes bloodshot with rage.

Two monsters.

Red, both of them. Red. Red. Red like the house, the soil, the blood of their victims.

What future was there for them except a pyre, their miseries burned away with their sins.

His heart drummed.

_Wait for her_.

Wait for her return.

All his life, Thomas was nothing more than an automaton, moving in accordance to a script prepared by others. He only knew what previous writers told him.

But Edith, she was a wordsmith, the creator, the bringer of fates. She could see more than him, always able to see more.

So what was this future she could see that he did not? This future that warranted her return back to this hell, this hell she had fought so painfully to escape. A future where he might be able to see her again, and how desperately he wanted to see her again, even for a moment.

Thomas was a dreamer to the core, grasping for hope in the most hopeless of places.

What a hopeless place, black moths bursting with his sister's scream.


	4. Chapter 4

When they were young, Edith never wanted Alan to leave. She stifled her hurt for the entire week leading up to his departure, going so far as to refuse seeing him off until her father convinced her otherwise. As irrational as it was, she took it as a personal betrayal, the abandonment by her best friend.

But Alan _had _to leave. He _had _to. By that point he had decided on fashioning himself into an ophthalmologist. Though not the most respected field, it ensured that he had at least one patient. The most important one. He imagined Edith in his future practice, him fitting lenses over her cornflower-blue eyes.

His medical studies would make him return a made man. It would prove him to be financially sufficient in the eyes of Edith's father.

_I left for you._

For their future.

But Edith had begged him, had begged him, because while he gazed into the future, she was looking at the present and her need for him _now_.

It never occurred to Alan that the time and the distance would ever weaken their bond. Or that he would return, bottled full of yearning, leaping in excitement, his passion for her stronger than ever and she would be… so calm. So grown. So formal.

Dr. Alan McMichael. A family physician. An old friend. Was that what he had become to her?

Alan always thought he could make up for missed time. That they could catch up on each other's adventures. The stories. The books. The slides. She never left his heart, and all it would take was time to rekindle hers. He fought so hard to win her attention again, ran so fast, chasing after her through libraries, socials, parks.

It never occurred to Alan that maybe time was limited, and his had ran out, for Edith had already been swept away by another man.

Alan's heart broke at Edith's cries in the snow, the rawness in her voice as she called for Thomas. The love that she had tried to restrain had burst out, the thought of his loss too crippling for her to bear.

The pain Alan felt then was worse than any stab wound, worse than bearing witness to her marriage. Because what he was watching now was how deeply Edith had been _cut_.

No amount of time would heal this wound. No amount of intimacy would remove her from the other man. Sir Thomas Sharpe had clawed into her soul and left his mark. He would haunt her to her death and torture her with his.

And any protest Alan had would only come out in vain.

.

Rain pounded against the window. Below, cloaked pedestrians splashed through the cobblestone streets, black umbrellas battling against the winds. Opposite was another row of tightly-crammed shops, rivulets of water running across iron railings and wooden placards.

Edith picked at her glove, her gaze lost on the outside and her mind lost somewhere even further. Her outfit was a plain one that spoke of mourning, her hair loosely woven and hidden by a modesty veil.

Framed against the window, she looked like the centerpiece of a lost Emily Osborn painting, though she was too old to be an orphan and too young to be a widow. Just a glance at her profile and neck spoke of her past beauty, of how radiant she once was and could be, if only painted with brighter colors.

"Dr. Alan McMichael?"

At the door were two London policemen, tall, straight-backed, and well-groomed. Strapped around the waistline of one man was a holder for his truncheon. The other looked to be a detective. They brought traces of the weather indoors, the wool of their uniforms beading with water.

To Edith, they took off their hat, requesting a private moment with her companion.

Edith paused. Her gaze fell to Alan, who revealed himself to be awake, slowly stirring and rising up against the headboard. He gave her a smile and nod. It did not wipe away her troubled look, but she conceded, letting herself be wheeled away from his bedside.

As soon as the door closed, Alan squared his shoulders. He regarded the officers, careful not to betray the apprehension their appearance brought about. He swelled with a need to confess, to tell them about Crimson Peak and the two murderers dwelling within.

The people needed to know. The truth needed to be out.

Alan desperately wanted the truth to be out—out of his chest, out into the light, where people could gather and justice could strike, the monsters vanquished and the heroes freed. A speech to mark the finale of every detective novel.

Except life was never so simple, so easily wrapped up by words on a page. Alan was not as simple as a character nor the world a vessel for his plot. Horrors in Cumberland were of no concern to the officers of London. It became apparent from their questions that they were looking for leads on another case. They came to check that the attack he suffered was not connected.

They seemed surprised when Alan told them his injury happened far up north. The detective lowered his notepad. "If you don't mind us asking, sir, why are you in London?"

Alan explained his university connections and his familiarity with the present physicians. Given the severity of his injury, he believed the city would better his chances of recovery.

After a pause, he added that the relocation was also to put his lady companion at ease. These gentlemen could imagine how such a violent robbery tainted her perception of the countryside. She felt safer within a well-policed city such as London.

The officers responded well to the compliment, and any suspicions they had about the couple gave away to politeness and hospitality. After a few more formalities, the men wished Alan good health and turned their backs.

And through the door, another opportunity lost, the truth left fluttering blindly in its cage.

Silence was dangerous, Alan knew. The longer they kept the darkness, the longer Lucille Sharpe lived.

Crimson Peak had been her domain. Within its walls, they had been helplessly trapped and at her mercy. But after their escape, power was theirs. How the light of society would expose her, scorch her. How easily she would perish from a few words, if only Alan ever freed them.

If only he could, he thought, staring helplessly at the ceiling.

The same light that would burn Lucille would now burn Edith too. Edith, the wife of a serial killer, widowed by the noose. Even if innocent, damaged. She would be a walking omen, the people whispering of the day she would be claimed by the same hysteria.

Her reputation would never survive the scandal.

But was protecting her name worth the risk? How long before the Sharpe siblings claimed another victim? Before Lucille found them? He and Edith would never be free of the terror they faced.

Forget entertaining himself with detective novels. At this point, Alan would much rather prefer a fairy tale, the story ended after the witch was pushed into the fire and the oven door slammed shut.

.

The winter was passing, and with it, the bitterness in the air.

Acquaintances came calling, inquiring after Alan's health and events in America. He would introduce them to Edith, whom they would gift with many compliments, if not too many.

For months, they lived within the trivialities of polite society, to the point Edith felt pulled back into her old days in Buffalo, before her encounter with the Sharpes, before all the insanity and chaos. The lifestyle she had once ridiculed so mercilessly was now her haven; what had once suffocated her now let her breathe.

Under the many falls of rain, Edith would think of her father, of what their lives would be like were he still with her. The night he last held her, he had proposed a journey to the West Coast, just the two of them. They would travel and dine. There would be thundering trains and great architecture and brilliant sunsets, all absorbed into her pen and out into words.

He had held her so gently, and she had shut him out.

She had continued to shut him out, even after his death. Closed her eyes and ran far away. Sold her memories and never looked back. She refused to ever consider the possibility that perhaps it was her own greed that killed him. That perhaps she faced a choice and made it, when she traded one man in her life for another.

Edith no longer looked away. Carter Cushing deserved a proper mourning.

And she, the time to understand.

She needed to know the meaning of loss, of the worlds that vanished with every road unwalked. Of her true desires, and the world she wanted to create.

Under the wings of her father, Edith had grown up a firm believer in building one's own future. She had grown up praising the miracles of industrialization, of progress and change, of fearlessly plunging oneself into the depths of the great unknown.

What they had failed to understand was that you cannot choose everything you unleash. Even miracles have costs. With progress came poison, the same poison that would paint her own mother black. The same poison that would twist and disfigure the newborns, quietly smother the elderly in the late night. At what point was pushing forward foolish? At what point should she simply be grateful for all she had been given?

Alan placed a hand on her chair. Without looking away from the view outside, she leaned back, letting his presence enclose hers.

There were no words between them. Two decades of history spoke plenty, the memories flowing from her imagination to his. The happier times, the silly and stupid, cowboys and pirates, two compatriots running through endless fields of wild grass and ferns.

They were so well matched—like the skies and the clouds, the dandelion and the wind—that guests easily mistook them for husband and wife. At some point, they stopped correcting them.

At some point, Edith allowed herself to just breathe.

At the end of every rainfall was a fresh beginning. Nature could cleanse, just as time could heal. Soon, the bruise on her finger would be nothing more than a distant memory.

But it would be up to her what new memories to create, what new love to embrace, what new wounds to bear.

.

A platter sat forgotten in the corner, the meal finished. A wooden box with the Sharpe engraving lay empty. A handkerchief dangled off the arm of a chair, the ghost of a stain blossoming in the center.

The rooms of Edith Cushing and Alan McMichael were vacant, its occupants having run away together, two partners in crime from the high mountains to the deep seas.

They could be spotted miles away at the heart of civilization, amidst thundering trains and great architecture and a backdrop of a brilliant sunset. A sheaf of loose papers fluttered wildly in the wind, fighting to free itself from its master's grip.

The people roared, the engines steamed, the clock chimed. There was no telling what words the good doctor gave his lady companion on the platform. What words she returned in their passionate exchange. What words kept them in their own spellbound world despite all the movement and frenzy around them, what words brought forth the joy, the tears, the sudden pull as she took his lips with hers. Her hair freed with the wind, the strands of gold in the air as a speeding train hid them from view.

By the time the train was gone, so was she, vanished, the only evidence of her existence the novel left behind in his hands.

.

The sound of rumbling engines echoed in the distant hills. Fog was lifting from the skies, the frost of winter retreating from the earth. In spring's resurgence, roads were busy again, soon occupied by the bouncing beat of hooves.

The carriage rider pulled to a stop before a gentleman. He was young and handsome, wearing a tight-form, dark waistcoat over high-collared linen and equally dark trousers tucked into his boots. His gloved hands held firmly onto a walking stick.

Despite the air of dignity, there was a notable strain in his gait. The result of a bad fall… from horseback, perhaps?

The gentlemen tilted his hat in greeting, though made no effort to remove it.

The carriage rider returned the gesture. "Where can I take you, sir?"

"Cumberland."


	5. Chapter 5

Edith stepped off the carriage, below the looming gate of Allerdale Hall. The hills were as barren as she remembered, the metal entryway rusted and bent.

The clay had seeped up the snow, painting the aftermath of a brutal massacre, one void of survivors.

Iron creaked in the wind.

"You sure this the right place, sir?"

Edith nodded.

The carriage rider gave the estate another look before hesitantly giving his reins a whip. One hill and he disappeared from view, the sound of his horses faded to silence.

Solemnly, Edith studied the behemoth architecture in the distance, with its jagged roofline and asymmetric towers that spiralled endlessly into the grey sky. There was no source of light from any of the windows, the attic dark. No movements, no sign she was being watched. No sign she wasn't.

To Edith's surprise, the gate was locked. To keep intruders out or to keep monsters in?

A violent image struck Edith then, of herself on the other side of the metal bars, shaking them desperately while footsteps crept up from behind. Two sets of them, their hands on her as she was forcibly dragged back in.

Controlling her breath, Edith let the cold metal fall from her fingertips.

A brutal smash. Then another, and another, until metal surrendered with a cry.

The rock dropped by Edith's feet, as she proceeded onwards.

Her boots sank deeper and deeper into the clay, as did her walking stick, the land swallowing her every step. She bit her lips at the sight of Thomas's invention, tilted with one side submerged. The winter had not treated the machine kindly, its shine gone, its belts sagging.

Looking at it now, it was hard to believe how animated it was once was, livening the landscape with all types of exciting grumbles and hoots. It had been the cumulation of all their hopes and dreams, cheerfully digging its way into the future.

The future.

Edith's hand trembled around her walking stick, as she forced herself to continue.

It was at the main door that Edith found her mind in another spiral, her willpower faltering. Nature had cleaned up some evidence but not all. There remained faint splatters on the stonework, dark trails from where Alan bled. From where Thomas stabbed him.

She could see them both. She could see them both standing right before her, as if no time had passed since that moment.

Another breeze, one strong enough to shake her hat and free a few strands of blonde hair. The coldness crept through her clothing and down her spine.

No longer was she alone, Edith knew, as she turned in the direction of the howl.

There it stood, alone in the field.

The last moments of a gangly silhouette, disjointed and as red as the ground. Its bent skeletal arm, hollow eyes and mouth fading away like smoke in the wind.

A fearsome sight, enough to stop the heart of any man. It only calmed Edith's, as she finally removed her hat.

"Thank you, Margaret."

The door opened without resistance.

And thus, Edith Sharpe was home.

.

The architecture was dizzying and endless, narrow hallways and twisting stairwell that had Edith lost within a labyrinth.

Moths fluttered, as Edith pushed open the door.

"Thomas?"

The dust settled, revealing an empty workshop. He was not here either.

Heart pounding, Edith made her way to the next room, her pace increasingly rushed. She was cutting through another beam of light, passing through window after window, when something caught her eye.

To her left was one of the mansion's many empty rooms. Through the crack in the door was the shape of a wheelchair.

An empty wheelchair.

Edith's blood turned cold, as the crack widened to reveal all tethers abandoned on the floor, one belt still hanging off the arm. The belt looped air.

Edith breathed.

Her foot backed, creating a creak in the floorboards.

More moths fluttered, shifting the shapes in the wallpaper, obscuring the shadows. Flies crawled in the cracks and ceilings.

Edith breathed.

Another creak. She whipped around, expecting a knife, a shriek, a plunge.

Still nothing.

The entire house was too quiet.

As Edith passed through the rooms, she wondered how many she had checked, how many she had left. She never did count them.

What if all of them turned out empty?

What if Thomas was not here?

A sharp turn. She reached the elevator. There it waited, rusted and creaky as with everything else, promising a one-way descent back into hell.

What if Thomas was here.

What if he had been beneath her this whole time.

Edith breathed.

No.

She had to keep looking.

As she turned the next corner, she stopped. Her eyes locked on the wisping figure three doors down.

Pamela.

The ghost stared back, then vanished.

Edith's hand reached into her jacket, as she approached the source of sound.

"...never did him any harm… killed all the mice in the farmer's barn… but kill..."

Her hand stopped at the knob, as she pressed her ear to the door.

"... the well... ding dong bell…"

Her heart stopped.

"...what a naughty boy was that…"

Everything forgotten, Edith pushed her way into the bedroom. She stopped breathing.

"... to try to drown… the pussycat."

On the bed was Thomas, staring blankly at the wall. His wrists were bound above his head, locked against the post of the bed. He hadn't seen her, nor reacted, even as Edith ran back to shut the door.

"_Thomas_," she whispered, as loud as she dared. Edith ran forward again, nearly throwing herself onto the bed, bursting with relief. Her knee hit the mattress, and she was all but on top of him, cupping his face with her hands. "Thomas."

He blinked, as if he could not tell what he was seeing. It took even longer for her voice to reach him, but once it did, his eyes widened with life, his body jolted up.

"Edith?"

"Thomas," Edith cried. Before she could help it, she had him in a hug. His position did not allow him to return the gesture, only lean into her embrace.

She ended the contact just as abruptly, as she kept his gaze locked with hers. "I'm getting you out."

Edith did not want to think how long Thomas had been strapped here. His wrists were angry with welts, parts of his skin broken. His hair had fallen down to his shoulders, ungroomed, his body emaciated. There were tears in the stitches of his clothes that were rumpled and gone too long without wash.

It seemed like Lucille had taken everything away from her brother except his life, leaving him to cling on by the threads.

"I'm here now. I'm here." Edith closed his hand in hers as if doing so would send him her strength. Her chest ached at the sickening bruise coloring one side of his face, the cut lip.

Lucille had hurt many people before but never her brother. The situation was worse than Edith had thought.

"Lucille… where is she?"

At the mention of his sister, the light in Thomas snuffed out like a cap to the candle, his earlier joy giving way to sadness, then fear.

His eyes floated to the door.

.

Moisture dripped from the bathroom walls, ages of growth and decay having painted them a sickly green. Despite being two floors up, the air breathed like a dungeon, the only warmth from the many dancing fires of the candelabras.

The flickers attracted a fluttering moth. Lucille, whose chin and neck basked in the glow, pinched the moth by the wing before it incinerated itself.

She gave the frantic thing a fond, pitying look. The sight of its struggles had her in a trance, as she continued to tap her fingernail against the edge of the tub. Red water rippled with music, her hair in a float up then down, vining in all directions like tendrils.

Deep below the surface of the water, something rested against her bare thighs. The object was heavy and dense, the handle just submerged.

Smiling, Lucille brought the fluttering moth to her lips, as if for a kiss. As if to whisper secrets. As if to seal them.

The wing snapped.

The moth fell, joining the other insects on the bathroom floor.


	6. Chapter 6

The door was not closed. She saw them coming like the mother saw the children coming. Except, unlike the mother, she was expecting them. She was waiting for this moment.

"I knew you would come back."

Lucille Sharpe rarely smiled. She was smiling now, smiling freely with full teeth, as her head slowly turned to face them.

There was something unnerving in her stare. It was too wide, too _off._ It was a stare that ate Edith whole.

"I admit, I was wrong. You and I, we are not so different after all. Keeping what is ours, taking what is theirs." Her spine arched. "We even fuck the same men."

Slowly Lucille rose, her hair pulled from the water, contouring the slopes of her bare shoulders and breasts, waist and hips. Red ore coated her skin, painting her as slick as a newborn baby. Over her heart was a scab of spider-web black.

Silhouetted against the window, she looked indistinguishable from the other ghosts that haunted the halls. There was only one difference. She could kill.

Her hand rose, and with it, a cleaver. It hung heavy and old and dull, red water dripped from the edge. There was no stealth here. Only a scream for savagery, for ugliness and deformity and a brutal end.

Edith recognized it as the same cleaver that split Lady Beatrice's skull in half. It took all her willpower to keep her courage.

"Drop the weapon, Lucille," she whispered.

Lucille's smile only widened, as if Edith had just said the most darling thing.

"Lucille, _please_." It was Thomas, released prematurely from his leash. He was begging her again, as he had every night. Whatever he could do to get her to listen, even if the most his pleas resulted was another punishing blow onto him.

When was her poor brother going to understand? Playtime was over. He had behaved badly, so his toys were going to be taken away. Whatever Lucille bought for him, she could also take away.

Chitin cracked under her bare feet. Before she could advance another step, the room echoed with a heavy click.

"I said, drop the weapon."

Edith had regained her nerve, positioned firmly in front of Thomas. Lucille was not the only one who had prepared for this confrontation. Edith had as well, and she knew better than to trust in words alone to protect her this time.

No more prayers. No more pleading and waiting on the mercy of others. From this moment forth, she was setting her own laws.

Lucille stared into the barrel of the gun, then at the holder. Edith's face betrayed nothing, no break in her emotions, no weakness in her stance. While Lucille stood bare, Edith had redressed herself in civilization and brought all the power that came with it.

It was difficult to believe how a few months could bring about such a drastic change. How much little Edith would grow.

Lucille stared at the subtle shake, despite the double grip.

But had she really? Or was this simply a case of playing pretend. Of a girl acting out as a pirate.

"_Lucille_," Edith warned.

More chitin cracked, tiny scales sticking to the bottom of Lucille's feet.

To Edith's dismay, not even a pistol could keep her at bay. The other woman had called her bluff, advancing step by step without fear.

Poised as a viper, Lucille feigned an attack to unnerve Edith more, to shake away the last of her confidence. She laughed. It didn't matter what shiny contraptions Edith brought from the outside. It would change nothing in their story.

Left without a choice, Edith took a swift two-step retreat to reestablish their distance. She pulled Thomas with her into her arm. Her strategy had not worked.

A click.

So it was time to switch tactics, as her pistol leveled once more.

Now this.

_This_ did work.

Edith did not miss the cold halt in Lucille's movements, the rigid fright, the first honest reaction throughout Lucille's careful presentation. It confirmed Edith's suspicions.

Lucille was lucid.

The village may have put her in an asylum, but mad she was not. Not then. Not now. Madness did not keep someone like her alive all these years. It did not keep the house from sinking.

Meticulous planning did. Schemes and traps, adapting to change, preying on weaknesses. Everything she did, she did with intent, she did with mind of the consequences and the costs.

Lucille was lucid, and her fear for her brother was enough to hold onto her weapon, as long as Edith's was directed towards Thomas.

The consequences and the costs. Edith had just raised both, beyond what Lucille may be able to accept.

Not that Edith can ever know. Her weight rebalanced, Lucille forcibly sewed together any openings in her composure. It was her turn to resort to a bluff.

"Nothing will change by hurting him."

"Except make us even."

Lucille's smile wiped clean. Her eyes darted back to Thomas, her last hope.

He did not resist, only closing his eyes. He had already surrendered, bracing himself for when Edith spilled his brains, the way Lucille did her father's. In his twisted mind, he probably believed he deserved it.

The sight struck into Lucille's deepest fears, created a tumult of emotions that cracked her from the inside.

She loved Thomas. It was the raw truth. The horrible truth, the beautiful truth. She always loved him more, with the frightening depth of an abyss. Suffered for him. Suffered with him. Even when she punished him, she never left anything permanent, never did anything that would tarnish his beauty.

The idea of holding him for ransom would have been unimaginable. The idea of him giving in, even worse.

Her poor brother, willing to give up his life for this woman.

Willing to die at the hands of this woman.

This other woman… despite having Lucille. Despite all the love Lucille had fed him, despite all she had done to complete him. He had even lost his smile, that real, genuine smile she adored so much. The smile she had fought so painfully to protect.

Not once had he smiled, not once since Edith took her leave, and with her, anything remaining of value in the house. The one precious thing they had left in this damned family. Her brother's heart.

Lucille stood, the cleaver trembling in her hand. Her mask fractured more and more, the colors underneath it threatening to burst.

"For the last time, drop the weapon."

Everything, just needing to burst.

And burst they did, the weapon leaving her hand. Only it did not fall to the ground, but slice through the air, spinning right towards the culprits of her heartbreak.

There was no more laughter.

Only screams.

Only rage.

The purest rage, and the sound of two shots fired.


	7. Chapter 7

The first time Thomas married, it was after a terrible humiliation in London. His plan to save him and his sister had ended in disaster, with investors laughing behind his heels. Only freshly out of boarding school, he had little but sketches in a notebook, the product of childish imagination and pitiful hopes.

Just a year prior, he had freed Lucille from that awful institution. He saw the abuse they had struck upon her over the years. Her health had suffered, both mentally and physically, her bones peeking from her skin, her eyes dull. He had hugged her tightly and promised to nurse her back to her former brave self.

He could not do that if he could not even put food on the table. Could not even warm her in the winters, as she huddled inside the covers, frozen. The family had gone through their last supply of coal.

They had already pawned off most of what they could. Father's rifles. Mother's collection. But everything they had was old. No one cared for old things in an era of engines and steam. Thomas had hoped he could turn his talents into something that would fit into the new world, that he could go from designing toys to the machines that people adored so much. That he could produce something of value, anything at all.

The rain soaked mercilessly into his clothes, into the pages of his notebook. By then, it shouldn't have mattered. They were worthless anyway.

Pamela Upton, then thirty-five, had just closed up shop when she saw Thomas sitting miserably on the curb. Despite his finely tailored clothes and good shoes, he had not enough money to afford an umbrella, much less a coach. In good nature, she took him in for tea.

It was an odd experience. The young lad was well-mannered and charming, but also ill-adjusted to the city. Curious, but sometimes utterly ignorant of common sense. It was as if some other-worldly prince or magician's doll had just dropped onto her doorstep.

He had the most beautiful blue eyes. They would shine with delight, and she had a way with humor that lit him up again and again, until he laughed, and she laughed, and the dreary grey weather was all but forgotten.

Thomas was unnaturally handsome. He was seventeen. Pamela could not fit into his biggest of shirts, could not fit into any clothes of fine society without the buttons ballooning around her middle. Yet, it did not stop her from rechecking the mirror, from putting pins in her hair. It did not stop her from being warmed with the bubbliest joy whenever Thomas cheerfully complimented her on those same pins.

A doomed love, Pamela knew.

But nothing, if not genuine.

Thomas liked her. If he did not, he would not return to her shop day after day, he would not have such eagerness in his eyes as he spoke to her, he would not run her errands or inquire of her thoughts. He would not reveal to her the secrets of his notebook, or glow at her praise, or listen so intensely to her advice.

"If you're going to go into business," she had told him, "you have to know how to sell. Pick a product and stick with it."

In her, Thomas saw a friend, a mentor, perhaps even a lost mother. But he did not desire her the way she did him.

That was the reality Pamela had been given. And that was the reality she had accepted.

At least, until the day before Thomas's departure, when he dropped by her shop one last time. He had held onto his hat, regarding her with a solemn expression, far too serious and mature for his age. Pamela had lowered her tea tray, unsure of what he was asking of her.

Come with him to Cumberland?

Then she saw the ring.

His sister needed coal. Thomas had promised he would not return until he brought her food and a warm bath. He had promised he would find something to sell.

But everything they had was old. Even the ring he had dug from his mother's grave, the jeweler had taken one look before shaking his head.

The tea tray fell.

Pamela had tears in her eyes, as she rushed toward him.

Everything they had was old. Everything, except Thomas himself.

He was young. His eyes shined brighter than any jewel. If he was as worthless as the investors said, then why did people turn their heads on the street, why did their eyes linger on him as he passed.

No, Thomas still had something of value.

And if it also brought his dear Pamela happiness, then he could be happy too.

.

It was a macabre dance Thomas had started on that night of 1886, a pas de trois that once started cannot ever stop, even as his arms tremble and his feet bleed. He will play his role as lead, his body given as support to one lady by day and another by night. He will do whatever he must to keep them joyous, blind, spinning and spinning.

With grace.

With dignity.

Should he perform well, the heat will return to their home, the food to their table. The walls will straighten, the colors will return. In the place of dust and decay were fine crochet and treasured tea cups, the kitchen always glowing with warmth and light. Not all gestures had to be scripted, not all feelings had to be forced.

His ill and hysterical sister slowly hushed, risen to her feet. The life within her returned alongside the house, a reward that alone justified every cost.

But while the sister flourished, the wife wilted, whited and thinned until her clothes floated around her, until she became too weak to walk. In the fading years, doctors would come and go, trays of breakfast and tea brought faithfully to her side every morning. The house found itself an elevator, built to help his dear Pamela move, the devotion he showed that only made her sicker.

Sicker and sicker, the walls beginning to twist once more. The walls, then her neck, a final pull and snap before her fingers twitched no more.

It was a macabre dance Thomas had chosen, lovely in its perfection and only its perfection, for even a single slip, a single falter will shatter this careful illusion he had created. For the participants to awaken. For the teacup to fall.

When he found his wife, her ears were deaf and her finger ringless. No matter how he pled, no call would awaken her.

From behind came the looming shadow of his sister.

He closed his eyes. She did not need to do this. She may not have, had he only held her more tightly in the night, whispered the right spell in her ear.

"It's okay, there is no need to pretend anymore."

He fought back a flinch when she touched his face.

It was okay. He did not need to lie to himself anymore. Delude himself into believing he was in love when he was not, because the truth was too shameful to admit. How he prostituted himself for a few pieces of bread and coal.

Hush, it's okay. She's not mad. She's not disgusted. To her, what he did was brave. What he did saved her life, and now she came to save his.

Pamela's favorite tea ran red along the floor tiles. Rope hung silently off the wheelchair. In the center of the room, the sister cradled the brother in her arms, two children who had saved each other.

The first time Thomas married, he was seventeen and trembling, beautiful and doomed. Pamela had on her finest hair pins when he carried her to the basement, when he watched her face submerge into the clay.

Clay that, in time, would sink them too.

And so, on to the next note, the next key. Another city, another chance. It would be up to him to catch the next lady's fall, and the one after that, and the one after that. It would be up to him to balance them properly this time, keep them enchanted, provide as a proper husband should, as a proper man should.

An eternal nightmare disguised as a dream, the promise of a happy ending within reach, if only he reached far enough.

If only he were better, he could save them all, prevent another skull from being cracked against the ground.

_Let me be better. Let me be better, so I may fix our home and restore our name. Provide you the wealth to indulge in fashions and fancies alongside the other blissful ladies. Then you will be content, and none will be harmed, and all will be well._

In Edinburgh, with designs of a clay machine. Margaret McDermott, who taught him his numbers.

In Milan, with rolls of blueprints and formulas. Enola Sciotti, who showed him her gears.

In Buffalo, with a box, and inside that box, a working model, visible proof that this could work, that this would work, if he were only given a chance, one more chance—

Edith Cushing.

In the past fourteen years, Thomas Sharpe had transformed himself into a magnificent dancer, and Edith was too entranced by his eyes to notice his feet, the streaks of blood he painted across the floor.

Between them was a candle flame that despite all his fatigue, Thomas kept alight, kept alight as he swore to himself once more that this would be the last.

This time, he would catch her. In this dance with no end, he must catch her.

Or die trying.

.

There was no thought, just a desire, when Thomas pulled in front of her. Edith felt the impact through him not a second after, a heavy force that pushed them both into freefall.

The next moment, Edith was dizzyingly looking up from the floor, her head and body cradled in Thomas's arms. _Thomas_.

She had no time to worry for him. A scream. Edith rolled away but not fast enough, another hand on hers, on the gun in her grip. Her finger jerked against the trigger.

Another shot echoed, the recoil causing both women to fall back. Something exploded in the distance.

Everything was a blur. Where did the bullets go? Was she wounded? Was Lucille? Thomas?

Edith could not feel anything, could not see anything except the fight before her. A breath escaped her lungs when her back slammed into the painful edge of a console. She returned with a knock of Lucille against the adjacent wall, rattling paintings that dangled all the more precariously.

Throughout the struggle, their hands remained interlocked in a twisted tango, neither willing to release the firearm, their fingernails clawing into one another for control. Edith could not let Lucille gain possession.

"Help me!" she cried.

Another blow, a pull across the hall. Lucille, wild black hair hiding wilder eyes, ones that screamed for Edith's demise. Lucille had ended all those other women, and she would end this one. She would end this one, if it was the last thing she did.

"Thomas can't interfere twice!" she spat venomously, her strength renewed. Edith found herself twisted onto her weaker leg. She held on.

"I wasn't..." Her hand strained. "...talking to Thomas!"

Lucille's eyes widened.

Edith was prepared, Lucille not, when gravity slammed onto them both. Their hands collapsed to the ground by a force unseen, and their bodies followed. Before Lucille could recover, the pistol had been snatched from her grip, the cold metal stricken full force against her head.

As blackness claimed her, a cry rang through her ears.

The cry of a dying baby.

Her baby.

.

Light filtered through the kitchen windows. Passing through his vision were movements, the wisps of gold.

Thomas found himself smiling at the sight of her face. She looked even more magnificent than in his memories, infallible in her new, bolder wardrobe. The air around her trailed in self-possession.

"You came back," he croaked. If a dream, it was not one he wished to awake. He willed himself to move, to meet her hand with his. A torrid of pain ran through him, and his fingers fell short.

She grabbed them in time.

"I said I would."

His smile widened, then grew weak. Swallowing, he dared himself to look down. Unlike her, he was a sore sight, shameful to be even held in association. At least his clothes had been changed, strips of bandages faintly visible through the linen.

"You took a bad hit," Edith explained softly. "I fear your ribs are broken."

"And you?"

"Not any worse for wear."

Thomas exhaled in relief until another thought passed him, one that shadowed his expression. He spoke nothing of it, knowing it was not his place to ask.

She answered for him regardless.

"You sister is upstairs. I'm sure you'll be hearing of her when she awakens."

For Edith, his reaction reaffirmed that her choice had been the right one, if not the more difficult. Despite what Lucille claimed, Edith was not her. She was not so lost as to believe killing family members, no matter how troubling, was an adequate solution to their problems.

Kneeling beside Thomas, she brought a wet towel back to his temple, where he had taken a particularly harsh collusion against the floors. He winced but then calmed, leaning into the contact.

Their time apart had been necessary. Edith needed space to think, time to decide. And she had, as she stared deeper into his eyes, into him.

There, a single moment appeared to have frozen for an eternity, ignorant of space and time, past and future.

She wanted to smile. He had made it through. He had waited for her.

And just as how he could understand her heart, she was slowing coming to understand his. Of what he wanted. Of what he dreamed. She was willing to help him get there, if he let her. Together, they can navigate through this darkness.

"I know you love her," she finally said. A truth once taboo, no more. Just as how the ghosts of Allerdale Hall frightened her no more, neither did this reality. Edith was coming to an understanding, and she held no desire to destroy the things he held precious. Neither would she let them destroy him. "I leave it to you. If you want to save her, I shall lend you my strength."

His eyes widened.

A dream that was not a dream. What he dared not wish, offered before him. After all Lucille had done, after all he had done, she was still offering it to him.

A chance.

A real, fighting chance.

Against the strains of his body, Thomas sprung from his chair, capturing Edith in an embrace. A broken embrace. She held him tightly through his tremors.

"Whenever you are ready. Whatever you wish to reveal."

His mouth opened.

"What do you want?" he asked. His eyes implored her for answers. Everything in his expression spoke of his willingness to please, even if he had yet to know how.

What had he even left to offer? he realized with sadness.

Himself perhaps. It was what his sister and all his previous wives wanted. It would be what he'd give Edith, who had found him charming enough back then, enough to accept his proposal. Though battered now, the ugly colors on him would fade, any imperfections hidden. He could be a true husband to her, an escort she would find proud in both the public and private domain, a man in every way she desired.

But as his heart pounded at the thought, Thomas saw with increasing confusion and fear that he may be conflating her fantasies with his own.

He wanted Edith to have him. He wanted her to have him in ways he did not want anyone else to.

But…

A part of him crumpled at her silence. Did she want him… still?

The two of them, they were so close, no more than a hair away. If she so wished, he would not resist her. He would not shy away or make excuses.

Yet, she made no effort to collapse the final distance between them. She did not pull to him like that day in his workshop, when her lips took his and refused to part.

She was staring so deeply into him, enough to cause aches in his soul, but there was no flame within her to mirror his.

_I know you love her_, she had said.

Not, _I love you_.

Only a fool would believe there would still be a place for words like those after everything he had done, after everything she had seen. Whatever passions she may have once held for him were irrelevant. What mattered were her feelings now, and whether or not he had become a passing fancy was not something Thomas had the courage to find out.

Edith rose, left to prepare a meal for two. He was still emaciated, and she herself famished.

"I want to eat something that's not poisoned."

A switch to a light-hearted tone, a different beat and melody.

Thomas complied, forcing a smile that concealed the extent of his devastation.

Of his unspoken heartbreak.


	8. Chapter 8

**.**

* * *

**BOOK TWO**

**WRITTEN IN STRENGTH**

* * *

Lucille came back less of a maelstrom and more of a cough, one symptom of the many illnesses that plagued the Sharpe's ancestral home. The chair rattled violently, the joints of its wood groaning and crackling. It rocked and swayed and plunged. Thomas rushed upstairs at the sound of a heavy thud and Edith's cry.

He noticed the fallen bronze candelabra first and snuffed out its flame. Then he was before his wife, whose hand trembled from a fresh wound. In the corner, Lucille craned her neck, her mouth opened into a smile of red-stained teeth.

With the spit and blood came a spew of curses. A few specks landed on Edith's cheek. Shaking, Thomas wrapped his coat around her and rushed her out, shutting the condemning screams of his sister behind them.

Unwilling to expose Edith to any more harm, Thomas made himself his sister's sole caretaker from then on. To change her clothes and wash her feet. He, not Edith, was responsible for his sister's fallen state. He deserved to bear the brunt of her abuses, to take her venom.

Her venom, bubbling inside her veins, pouring from all her wounds.

_Does the sight of my degradation please you as much as it did Papa? Had this been your plan all along, when you urged us to sail for America? To find some younger, prettier thing to trade me in for?_

_Lovely Edith, with her unmarred skin. Did you enjoy burying your nose up her underskirt? Was the fuck worth it?_

_Damn you, damn you to hell, Thomas Sharpe. If you love her, then go love her! Go love her until it burns you raw, love her until it consumes you whole. Love her right. Love her true. Just don't be surprised when she bores of you and trades you in for a more handsome plaything. _

_I won't protect you then. _

_I won't be there to clean up your mess. _

_You want to take all the love for yourself? Then take all the agony too._

_Take it, swallow it, and bear it alone._

_From this day forth, you have no sister. No, NO, you have no sister, you have nothing, you hear?_

_From this day forth, you are alone._

The twist of a knife, where she knew it would hurt, where she could bring him down to his knees. Revenge for her pain.

Thomas told himself that was all her words were, a cry of pain. He refused to let them cut him too deeply, refused to let her current state taint the sister of his memories. No matter how many times she disavowed him, he kept his patience and compassion, even as the visits began to take their toll.

And so this went on, the scratches and howls that permeated the house from above. Every time before his ascent, Edith would caution him not to drop his guard, not to fall prey to Lucille's words or leave anything within her reach, no matter how innocuous. Lucille might be strapped down, but she was dangerous. Intelligent. She would not hesitate to use his weakness for her against him. She would not pass up an opportunity if she saw one.

Thomas appreciated her warnings and gave her reassurances in return. He was fine. He would be fine. His words kept her from marching up the stairs with him, but did not shake away the worries in her stomach, the fear of horrible things happening beyond her sight.

His returns never restored her confidence either, as she helped him pick the food from his hair and wipe the saliva from his cheek. Her touches pulled him out of the reverie of his thoughts, out of Lucille's influence.

Once, in the course of her ministrations, her handkerchief picked out a clump of porridge. He found himself chuckling at her grimace, at the hopeless ridiculousness of it all. A madwoman in the attic. Their lives, plagiarized off a Brontë novel.

"You give yourself too little credit," Edith said teasingly. "We stole from at least three."

There was a playful curve to her lips that Thomas found enchanting. Before he could speak again, the house gave a violent, vibrating slam.

The sound came from upstairs, but not from the attic as expected. Frowning, Thomas clutched his side and leveled himself up. Pardoning himself, he left to search for the source of the noise.

It did not take him long to find it. In one of the hallways, a curtain was billowing madly in the wind. The fabric contorted into shapes, some distinguishable, some not. Something akin to a woman's form fitted to the fold, something solid.

The image had Thomas frozen, his breath stopped. At first he believed Lucille had managed to escape.

It was not Lucille.

The curtains abruptly pulled, any substance behind it sucked into the outside night, the windows closing with another frightening slam. Slowly, Thomas forced his legs to move and peered out.

A high moon shone over the moors. Nothing was supposed to be outside, much less seen, but see he did, for one brief flicker of the light.

The same woman's form, alone and unmoving.

Thomas fell back, paralyzed, praying that he had not been seen, that he had not been caught seeing. Deep inside, he knew those prayers were empty. That whatever stood outside was watching him through the walls.

The window creaked, slowly widening itself again as invitation. The size was just big enough to fit a man through, the height just high enough for the fall to be fatal.

Closing his eyes, Thomas grabbed the edges and pushed his full weight forward. The window sealed shut.

_Edith_.

He rose to his feet, not looking back. He would repair the lock tomorrow.

_I want to be with Edith._

_._

Bright sunbeams kissed Edith's cheek, marking the end of a morning spent in slumber. Hazily, she stretched onto Thomas's side of the bed, not surprised when it revealed itself to be empty. She claimed his pillow for herself, welcoming the rest.

The familiar cramp in her abdomen had finally subsided, but a new pang of hunger forced her to get up. She slipped into the trousers she had worn on the day of her return, her pistol tucked in its holster. Hanging heftily off her belt were the house keys. Thomas had made no protest when she assumed control over them, nor when she had overtaken duties in the kitchen.

Seizing her walking stick, she made her way downstairs to fix everyone's meals. The meats and cheese were long gone, as were the jams. She scavenged a quarter loaf of stale rye bread and two small molded potatoes. The bag for oats coughed up dust. Water, then. Their meals would be water.

Thomas was tinkering upstairs, working on the hinges of a window. He did not look up from his task.

"Good morning, Edith. Did you sleep well?"

"Surprisingly."

He had not, apparently. His complexion was pale, even by the standards of blue bloods. Edith leaned forward to study him.

"Thomas?"

He inhaled. "Lucille." He braced himself, as if the very name would put him under attack. "I think… I think she's calming down. She's no longer as… volatile."

Edith waited.

Thomas turned to her with beseeching eyes. "Can we move her from her place in the attic, Edith? Not to her old room, but elsewhere? I promise to keep her quiet. It's just… the attic isn't the best place for her."

Edith softened. "I'll look for a suitable room."

Thomas thought he had misheard. The look on Edith's face confirmed that he had not. His mouth opened, but no words came out, whether because he had too many or none at all he could not tell.

"Thank you," he finally said.

Edith leaned back, satisfied, until she remembered her reason for seeking him out.

"We are out of food."

From Thomas's expression, the news was as much of a surprise to him as it was to her. Neither had expected to reach this point, when something so trivially non-trivial would enter their domain of concern.

Laughing, Thomas rose. "I'll go to town."

He did not give her an opportunity to protest. With the horses gone, it would be half a day's walk to the nearest village. It would be unacceptable for Edith to make the trek, especially given the state of her leg.

Edith caught his wince as he steadied his balance. Her leg might be broken, but so were his ribs, though he was doing a fantastic job of pretending to be fine. Of pretending that his sister never struck him with a cleaver. Edith knew his body had suffered other abuses, too, ones he thought he successfully hid from her.

But it would do Thomas good to leave the house. She noted his worsening fatigue, and hated to consider the possibility of leaving him alone in this damned place with his sister again.

"Thomas."

Thomas was too busy fetching his coat.

"Thomas," Edith tried again.

He turned around, prepared to face her objection. There was none, only a raised eyebrow and set of bank notes in hand. Last Edith recalled, he had been lacking in that department.

A light pink dusted his cheeks. Well, good thing he was excellent acquaintances with humiliation at this point, and had become adept at picking up his fallen dignity.

"Get a ride for the way back," Edith said, folding the bills and tucking them into his breast pocket. She gave his collar a firm tug. "I better not see you walking home."

He gave her a sheepish grin.

After Thomas left, Edith decided it was time to revisit her sister-in-law, something she knew was overdue. The elevator miraculously still functioned, stopping at the top floor. As usual, the bottom of the cab did not align flush to the floor. Edith gripped onto the iron bars of the cage gate to support her descent.

The air in the attic was thick with dust, the particles visible in the hazy light. The walls were crooked, the moths melted into the molted wallpaper in brown stains. They did not scatter in her presence, so still that Edith could not tell whether they were languid or simply dead.

Lucille sat in the former study of the nursery. The chests and blackboards had been moved, the desks pushed out of sight. A skylight let in fragile beams that stopped short of a blanket on the floor, bundled at the feet of the wheelchair.

More blankets draped over Lucille's shoulders and down her body, presumably draped by Thomas to protect her from the night chill. Her hair was woven into a single loose braid, but it was jagged and uneven, with strands flying out wildly and the ends left incomplete.

"Lucille."

Edith stood at the entryway, unwilling to move closer. She propped herself against her walking stick, one hand still bandaged from where Lucille bit her. Edith had no doubt that the sight of it would bring the other woman triumph.

Except Lucille did not move.

Maybe the screams had exhausted her, Edith thought. The idea that Lucille had a limit seemed unfathomable. Evil was the one thing immortal, after all.

Seeing no point in waking her, Edith filed off. Thomas's workshop never touched the sun, but it felt warmer and showed renewed signs of habitation. On the workbench was a thinner, rattier blanket that he must have kept for himself throughout the long nights, when he wanted to keep proximity to his sister but remain out of her sight, for fear of unleashing her temper. It must have been where he had been sleeping, in place of Edith's bedside.

_No wonder he looks so ghastly_, she thought grimly. Her vexation at his nightly absences, a habit that she mistakenly assumed he would abandon after her departure and return, gave way to mostly resignation and pity. Instead, her negative thoughts redirected onto Lucille.

_Maybe I was too eager in my mercy. She will drag him to the grave, and all our pains will be for naught._

One hand around her middle, she pushed her way back towards the elevator. A rolling sound stopped her.

Edith looked down.

Something golden came to a stop at her feet. She recognized it immediately and strained to pick it up. She looked around for its sender but none revealed itself.

Her pen. The weapon that had saved her life, that had embodied her father's divine retribution when she drove it into Lucille's chest. It had come back to her, weighted and stained.

The longer she stared at it, the darker her thoughts became. Back then, her fear had outweighed her desire for vengeance. Edith had considerably less fear now.

_What did you come back for? What did you endure all this misery for? _

_Was it not to collect Thomas? You deem yourself capable of claiming him, yet all you have done is subject yourself to the same fate as all his other wives. Serving him while he serves his sister. _

_Poor thing, just like all the other wives. Your needs, neglected; hers, fulfilled._

Before the bitterness could swell inside her like an inflamed wound, Edith snapped shut her eyes. No. Thomas loved her too. She knew it in her soul.

_What good is his love for you if he can never act on it? Love he may have, but none will you receive, except in his miserable apologies the day he carries you to the basement._

_If you truly think you have the strength to take Thomas for yourself, then cut what holds him back. You feed his optimism, but you cannot possibly believe that there can be any salvation in this situation._

The pen waited, without shine.

_It will devastate him, but he will forgive you. It will not weaken his love for you._

_If you need evidence, look no further than behind you. Lucille—she has done it three times. Has he not forgiven her each time? Has he loved her any less?_

_If he truly loves you to the extent you believes he does, then he will be on his knees before you by nightfall. He will acknowledge you as his new mistress, ready to serve and obey._

No…

That was not...

The dust motes became suffocating. Light-headed, Edith fell back against the wall, unsure if she had accidentally crushed a few moths in the process, if their frail bodies were staining her shirt.

_No? A pity._

_Maybe this is too much for you. Some women tragically never do amount to much. When promised to be made a lady yet found themselves a side whore, they without self-respect see it easier to defend their deceptor than their own dignity, having deluded themselves of their contentment…_

No, Edith had heard enough. She made a violent turn for the elevator.

_Go on then, and delude yourself of your contentment…_

She yanked the lever.

_...as you feed your father's wealth to his murderer._

.

Shaking, Edith ran the water until it turned clear. She held her pen under the faucet, watching the stains wash away and its metallic shine return.

After, she locked herself in her study. She sat for a considerable number of hours, just to calm herself and collect her thoughts. Whatever demon that had seized her upstairs had thankfully receded.

When she felt in control again, she found appreciation for the rare moment of afternoon peace. The recovery of her pen encouraged her to start her letters.

She had many, the most important to Alan. She needed to tell him she was safe, for now, and that she intended to proceed with their plan. Thomas was still a cooperative ally, and Lucille, while alive, was neutralized.

Speaking to her friend, even through pen, brought Edith back to solid ground. She blew the ink dry, then tucked the letter in its envelope, the address left empty. She would fill that in when she was at the post office to personally send it off.

Done, she steeled herself to face Lucille again. She brought upstairs a cup of water and the last bit of rye. Expecting some type of ambush, she rebalanced on her good leg and reinforced her grip on the platter before entering.

Once again, Lucille did not stir.

Edith was becoming frustrated. If this was some scheme to get her to come closer, it was working.

"Lucille."

Nothing.

Upon careful study, Edith realized Lucille had not moved an inch since her morning visit, the braid in the same position against the blanket pattern.

Slowly, Edith's expression changed. She lowered her tray onto the floor, and called out Lucille's name again, softer.

Before she reached out, she stopped herself, her countenance hardening as she recalled her own warnings to Thomas. Lucille's hands and feet. Edith wanted to see them first, to check that they had not been freed, that Thomas had not given into her persuasion and showed mercy.

With her walking stick, she peeled the blankets away, layer by layer. As they fell, she looked for any type of movement beneath, bracing herself for an attack. For Lucille to animate to life, lunging for her neck and strangling her on the floor. For a knife to pierce through the weave and into her stomach.

Thomas was absent. He would not be able to come between them as he had in the past, save her from his sister or his sister from her. If they fought now, there would be either one survivor or none. If they fought now, Edith owed Lucille nothing but a silver bullet through her skull.

_And would that not be a welcoming relief._

_A justified murder in the name of self-defense. A guiltless one._

The last of the wool dropped onto the floor pile.

Both of Lucille's wrists were firmly belted, as were her feet. The edge of the armrest had peeled away, her fingernails split and encrusted, evidence of her earlier rage and attempts at escape. Those fingers had gone listless, like every other part of her. In her current state, Lucille almost looked to be at peace.

Or dead.

Edith's heart skipped a beat.

No.

Not dead. Edith noticed the alarming gleam of sweat down Lucille's neck, her nightgown clinging tightly onto her form. Carefully, she extended her hand. The skin under her palm burned hot.

Shaken, Edith stepped back. She was sure the Lord was testing her now.

The taker of her father's life, the cause of her husband's infidelity, the root of her all her torment and pain was fated to perish, unless she, Edith, chose to intervene. A woman who wronged her unlike any other, yet was demanding not only her forbearance but also her charity.

For once, Edith was unsure her love for Thomas extended so far.

_The heart is full of self-indulgent fantasies, absurd sentimentalities to stroke its own pride and elicit delightful pleasures. Such love is only nurtured as long as it incurs little cost upon oneself._

_But to remain inside Allerdale Hall requires a different type of love, a deeper love, a tyrannical love. One that is ugly, and mad, full of sweat and regret. One that has no regard for sanity or the self. _

_So which are you?_

_A narcissist pretending to be kind? _

_Or a lunatic pretending to be wise?_

_Either way, your true nature will soon reveal itself._


	9. Chapter 9

The cage jerked before making a rapid descent, too rapid, past the third story, then the second, then the first. Inside, Edith watched helplessly as the elevator brought her down to the basement.

Holding in a curse, she had no choice but to wait for the contraption to stop of its own accord. By then, she was already enveloped by an earthen cavern of dampness and decay. Faint light from the end of the tunnel traced the mass of six fearsome vats.

One for Pamela. One for Margaret. One for Enola.

Their corpses, submerged forever in darkness.

_What was one more_?

Edith could not understand where these thoughts were coming from, why she felt so tempted to push the wheelchair in her grasp. The closest vat was calling. By the time Lucille awoke, if she ever did, Edith would have already closed the lid. All that would be left was to distract Thomas at dinnertime and let nature run its course.

All her problems, resolved. No more shrieks from the attic. No more fear of a madwoman gutting her in her sleep.

_Just one more._

Edith stared at the unoccupied vat, then the one adjacent, then the one adjacent to that.

No, it would not be one more. It would be three.

Edith gripped the edge of the wheelchair harder, her feet firmly in place.

One for Lucille. One for Thomas. One for Edith. That would be the true progression, if they let the devil inside them win. Her hand refound the lever, and the elevator obeyed this time.

Of the various chambers in Allerdale Hall, only a few contained a usable bed. Edith wheeled Lucille into the first that did. She opened the curtains, then pulled the decrepit sheets that enshrouded the furniture. Dust erupted. Exoskeletons of insects joined the dried leaves and husks on the floor.

Coughing, Edith limped back to Lucille, where she started unbuckling her ankles, then her wrists.

_I'm sorry, Father. I would give anything to have you back. If you were to live, I would even give up Thomas. If it meant you by my side, I would never leave our home again. _

Edith blinked back tears, which she attributed to the dust.

_But I cannot go back in time, and nothing I do now will bring you back. _

Lucille's body fell onto the mattress. If her sister-in-law had been feigning, she had had multiple chances to attack by now. But she remained lifeless, as grey and as desolate as the room that encased her.

An unattended fever could be fatal, and Lucille must have been burning for at least half a day. Edith thought of the beams from the skylight hitting all those blankets.

"Damn you," Edith hissed, climbing on top. The Lucille she knew was not some delicate thing. She was the fiend. She was the curse. No matter how many times you buried her, she rose back.

So where was that Sharpe tenacity? The level of self-possession that allowed her enjoy a cup of afternoon tea after cold-blooded murder?

Edith yanked open the collar of Lucille's nightgown, then pulled along the buttons and seams. She froze.

Her gaze followed the jagged outline of a scar.

What—

There were more. Most were ancient but deep, ripping through Lucille's skin like a torn canvas.

Edith knew Lucille had scars. She noticed them on their first promenade together in New York, how thin lines cut through Lucille's brow and lip, marring her otherwise stunning dark beauty. Courtesy dictated she keep silent on the manner, and Edith went on assuming they were the result of an accident with a cat or some other animal from Lucille's youth.

Edith never imagined there could have been more underneath her dress. Even when Lucille had stepped out bare from the bath, the ore had smoothed her skin with a coat of red, painted her clean except for the more recent stab wound.

The stab wound. Edith's gaze flickered over to the spider-web scar across Lucille's chest. It had cracked and expanded. Black veins swelled, staining the cotton.

An infection, Edith realized, feeling faint.

The strike of her pen might have been fatal after all. Only death had not claimed Lucille when Edith wished it. It had scheduled to make its visit months later, when Edith had already changed her mind.

.

"Edith? Edith, I'm home!" Thomas called, excitedly crossing the threshold of the front door into the foyer. Strapped around his shoulder was a sack of goods. His hands were busy with his scarf, which, instead of being secured around his neck, held together a precarious bundle of outside soil. Within the soil, a collection of delightful snowdrops were nestled, the first bloom of the season.

Thomas was careful to not leave a trail of dirt on his way to the kitchen, where he substituted his scarf for a brass container. After, he set his sack down on the table and removed its various contents.

Smiling, he set down a tin of hot chocolate by the teas, then proceeded to unload its corresponding pot and cups. He had not been able to justify their expense, until he learned the shop owner had been seeking a pair of gloves for his son. It was a happy exchange, with Thomas walking away with the charming metal set and the owner believing he received a charitable bargain.

Thomas knew the drinking water had an aftertaste that Edith found disagreeable. Tea was out of the question. She did have a fondness for sweet things, however, so hopefully the chocolate would prove to be a satisfying alternative.

"Edith?" Thomas called again. "Edith, come. Finlay is here! Oh, no, Finlay, let me get that for you." After relieving the old manservant of a sack of potatoes, Thomas rushed upstairs to search for their missing mistress.

He checked her bedchamber first and found her desk empty. He heard a drip from the direction of the bathroom.

"Edith?"

Was she trying to take a bath? If so, he would get boiler running immediately and fan the fire.

This room, too, was empty.

Thomas tightened the tap, and the dripping stopped. As he did, he noticed a change in the shadows.

The mirror had gained a second face. Human-like fingers walked up his spine. Against his ear came a deep breath. Whispers of all kinds, the whispers of children, many at once, fast like the buzzing of bees. Even closer, a long, wretched groan.

They willed him to hear.

He willed himself deaf.

And as long as his will was stronger, they would not claim him. They would not pull him into their madness.

Snapping his eyes shut, he escaped back into the hallways. His earlier mirth had dried in his mouth, his strides longer and faster.

Heart pounding, he ran up the spiralling stairs, up to the attic. His dread turned to terror.

The wheelchair was gone.

No.

Oh God, please no—

"Edith?! Edith!"

"Thomas? Thomas, I'm here!"

Thomas nearly slammed the door off its hinges. An overjoyed laugh escaped him at the sight of his wife at the edge of the bed, turning around and revealing her beautiful face. Natural and wholesome, alive and real.

He rushed to her side, fighting the urge to lift her into his arms right there and then. His eyes refused to look away for even a second, as if each second of her was too precious to lose.

"You were right here," he breathed, laughing again.

Edith shared his relief and grabbed his arm, though for different reasons. "You're back. Thank God you're back. Lucille is—I don't—I can't—"

Thomas stiffened at the mention of his sister.

Slowly, his joy fell to guilt, then panic, then pain, as he remembered his sister and found her lying fallen between them. Her pallor made him instantly ashamed of his earlier mirth. It made him afraid all over again. He called out to her timidly.

No response.

He brushed back her wet hair and repeated her name, as if he could coax her into awakening for him. He noticed her exposed chest and instinctively reached for her garments to protect her modesty. The sight of the stab wound stopped him.

Instead of retreating, the wound had grown, pulsing and alive, invading the nearby flesh like vines. It was not a sight Edith could have prepared him for. Protected him from.

She could practically hear every thought that raced through his head then. How this happened. How he missed this. The shivers he noticed in the late night, how wrongly he misinterpreted them, thought his sister cold instead of hot, too fatigued to notice the signs.

How his carelessness may have ruined her. How his mistake may have killed her.

Always his mistake.

Edith felt her heart break alongside his. She tried. She cleaned the wound the best she could. She had been changing towels for hours. But…

"She needs a doctor, Thomas," she whispered.

Thomas slowly nodded between controlled breaths, hiding his true feelings behind a strained smile. Feelings that would have been too inappropriate for a man to reveal, too disrespectful for a bride to receive.

"I met with Finlay in town," he said calmly. "He's here. We can ask him to help us retrieve a doctor."

There was that reassuring tone again. That everything was fine. Everything would be fine, as if he found his sister troubled with a cold and not lying on her deathbed.

Edith did not miss the slight tremble in the edges of his smile.

Downstairs, Finlay rose at the sight of Edith entering the kitchen. He greeted her deferentially with a pleasant nod, seemingly oblivious to her limp.

"Milady."

"Hello, Finlay," Edith said, her American accent in sharp contrast to his Scottish one. "My husband and I would like to ask you a favor. Lucille is sick and we need a doctor. Could you please bring us one from town? It's urgent."

Finlay continued to stare at her pleasantly, as if he had not heard. Then, after a slow blink, he said, "Absolutely, milady," and gave another wrinkled smile. With that, he took hold of his hat on the table and made a steady rise.

The years had shrunk his posture, but Edith noted the dignified air in his walk. For his age, Finlay kept admirable health, with the strength of a man decades younger.

As she watched his leave, it struck her that there was no reason to assume his mind was any less vital. She recalled the smile he gave upon their first introduction, the discomfort in Thomas's expression as Finlay looked to him.

"_I know, I know, milord. You've been married a while._"

What she had assumed for the words of a confused mind… had they been a warning? Or perhaps the admonishment of a servant to his master, one that could only be given after decades of service, after having seen them through from infancy to adulthood? And Thomas had had the grace to look abashed.

Finlay was supposedly their oldest and most faithful servant, having served the Sharpes for three generations. One simply did not reside so long in Allerdale Hall and fail to be acquainted with its nightmarish history. Edith had seen more than enough within her first month alone.

_He knows_, Edith realized, falling back onto a chair. _He has to know… about everything._

Too many questions swirled in her mind. What was he thinking when he had seen her come down, alive through the winter, and in gentlemen's clothes no less? Was he surprised? Skeptical? Dismayed? Proud? How loyal was he to Thomas? He must be very. But what about Lucille? He had been responsible in fetching the family's food supply; had he been buying Lucille her poison too?

Edith buried her face into both palms, fighting the need to vocalize all of her turmoil. She wished to hit herself, for both her previous naïveté and current paranoia.

_No, you must stay strong. Falling apart now will do no one any good. In fact, it may just get everyone killed._

Edith tightened her grip on her walking stick, pressing her forehead against both hands. She needed to prepare her presentation as Lady Sharpe and her explanation to the doctor of why her sister-in-law had a pen-deep hole in her chest.


	10. Chapter 10

Numerous doctors traipsed in and out of the household in the upcoming weeks. Each one had less faith in Lucille's recovery than the last. Some believed she would perish within the week. Others, within a day. Her condition was damning, and they could not conceive how she had survived through the winter with such a wound, much less one untreated.

But survive she did, and survive she would. That much Edith knew.

Unlike her husband, Edith cared less about these doctor's sentiments and more about their advice, dismissing them as soon she believed their duties had been fulfilled. She paid them for their time and their prescribed medicines, never once commenting on the bill. Even when there were cheaper substitutes, she chose only the authentic powders. Whatever the instructions, Edith followed, down to the fine print.

With proper treatment, Lucille's infection started to subside. It took longer to clear her fever, and longer still to regain her coherency. For weeks, Thomas remained her primary attendant, but Edith assisted where she could.

Finlay began to reside with them again, as Edith reemployed him for his services. Thomas had been right in that Lucille needed a proper room, so she worked alongside Finlay to make the existing one suitable.

Their safety was paramount. They removed anything that could be made a weapon. The hot poker from the fireplace. Any hard edges. The mantlepiece. The dresser and vanity both went, as did the chaise. Edith even pried off the light fixtures from the walls, leaving the only source of light the natural one from the oriel windows. The windows were full-body and faced east; it was a welcome change, encouraging the curtains to remain open and the day to flow in.

When all furniture was cleared except the bed, they did a thorough airing of the space. A place of living had no room for the dead. Hidden in the corners and crevices were old rodent carcasses. Grimacing, Edith cleared those first, then went on to do something about the blankets of dust.

Edith had never swept before, so it took her an embarrassingly long time to not simply drag trails of dust behind her. One time, Finlay caught her using the broom to, quite unsuccessfully, poke at cobwebs on the ceiling. Only after she was shown which key unlocked the maid's closet, which she learned was located under the backstairs, did she find the duster.

Then there were the counters to wipe, the linens to wash, the rugs to clean. Neglected dishes had piled up in her absence. Wax dripped short. The chores seemingly went on to eternity, and Edith could foresee her hair greying before she finished it all. Her heart ached for her former maid, Annie, whom she wished she had given more appreciation in their time together.

Back in New York, Edith and her father had half a dozen servants to care for duties like these. Allerdale Hall could devour Cushing Manor ten times over, yet the people in its attendance barely amounted to three. The weight that had been on Lucille had transferred over to Edith, who was struggling to not collapse herself.

Sweat dripped down Edith's brow. Screaming, she struck the beater down on the rug again, with as much force as she could gather. Her legs staggered, her breathing deep.

No, Allerdale Hall would not sink under her watch, under _their_ watch. Thomas was going to fix it, and she was going to clean it. Together, they would lift it up, even if it had to be by the sheer force of will alone.

Her bad leg lost balance. Edith fell onto her knees, a new wave of tears joining her laughter.

It was fine, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Thomas's reassured her. Everything was going to be fine. It was approaching dinnertime anyway.

The beater fell from her grip. She looked softly at the silhouette of the home she had inherited.

Allerdale Hall would host the living, not the dead.

After preparing everyone's meals, Edith decided to rest her muscles for the day. Earlier she had noticed a mysterious new tin on the counter that had escaped her in the past. Alarmed, she opened it, expecting tea, or worse, poison. To her surprise, the powder was dark and aromatic, and the sudden existence of that little slender pot on the shelves finally clicked in her mind.

With her cup of hot chocolate in one hand and her letters in the other, Edith retreated to the library. Her leg propped on a cushion, she leisurely read through her mail. One was from Alan, which she had been expecting. Another was from her lawyer, Ferguson, confirming that all of her fortune had been transferred to England under her name. The last was from the bank.

As she read over the legal documents, she could not help but think what would have happened had she met Thomas one generation earlier. Her signature was but a formality, yet it had been the one thing stopping her wealth from being transferred to her husband. The one thing that had been keeping her alive. Had Thomas and Lucille lived in their parents' time, they would have needed no such signature.

Edith stared at the portrait in the distant music room. Staring back was the looming figure of Lady Beatrice Sharpe, with her calculating eyes and grim frown. From what Thomas had told her, it had been her wealth that sustained the family, and it had been her wealth that Sir Michael Sharpe drank into oblivion. Had Thomas's parents met one generation later, could their story have been any different?

When Edith entered her bedchambers, she was pleasantly surprised to see Thomas by the fireplace. He tended to it every night, making sure the room was warm by the time Edith retreated for bed, though he himself was rarely present by then.

Edith closed the door gently, through the noise was still enough to startle Thomas out of his dreamlike state. He whipped around, then relaxed upon seeing who it was.

"And I had been so sure this fireplace magically lit itself," she said.

Her smile brought a glowing one to his. It took away some of the fatigue from his face, though not all, and could not prevent the sadness from returning to his eyes, or the haunted look that shadowed him with every flare of the fire.

"I dozed off," he confessed, his tone slightly apologetic. "The warmth was comforting." Her room was comforting. It was much more quiet, much more serene. If he could, he would never leave her bedside, but bask in the vestige of her presence.

But Thomas could not voice any of that nor could he leave, already caught where he did not belong. So he diverted her attention with a change in topic.

"How is your leg?"

"Stronger with every passing day." Edith refrained from mentioning her earlier twist and fall.

Sensing her omission, Thomas got up and swept her off her feet, carrying her bridal-style to the armchair. "Let us inspect it, then," he said cheerfully.

"Thomas! I—" Blushing, Edith angrily looked away as he knelt down and lifted her leg onto his lap. He had caught her bluff.

Her embarrassment soon grew into something else. She forced herself still as he slowly undid the lacing to her boots, then slid her foot free. Her garter became unfastened next, with her stocking gently rolled down.

The heat in her cheeks intensified, as she felt his hand against her skin, the small pressure by his fingers in their glide up. His touch sent her whole body pulsing, building her up until she could no longer look away.

To her relief and slight disappointment, whatever reactions Thomas was eliciting from her, he had not done intentionally. Nor was he aware of the effect of his actions, his eyes focused solely on her injury. Carefully, he covered the discoloring with his palm, as if doing so would transfer over his prayers and heal her.

But nothing changed. The damage had been done. He had had no power to prevent it back then, and he had no power to heal it now. All he had was regret and unspoken apologies.

Neither of which Edith cared for. If she were to receive something from his lips right then, she rathered it be a kiss.

"Thomas?"

When Thomas looked up, he did not expect the look of mischief on her face, nor the burn in her eyes.

"Now that you've inspected me, it's fair that I inspect you back?"

In one step, two, they were both on the bed. His heart raced as she pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. Her arms wrapped around him from behind. One by one, his buttons slowly became undone.

He let her slip his shirt down, his eyes darting, wanting to turn around and see her, yet not gathering enough courage to do so. His hair, which had been left uncut for too long, fell just short of his bare shoulder. His body, though not as unsightly as before, still held a thinness to it.

In the end, he kept his gaze downcast, letting her study him. He tried to keep his breathing steady under her touch, praying she would not be able to feel the thundering in his ribcage.

Edith's smile fell. Her fingers traced lower, and she did not miss the tension in his muscles when she grazed past a tender spot. In their interactions together, Thomas had been moving with notably more elegance and fluidity. She had taken it as a sign of his steady recovery.

Never would she have thought he had not recovered at all. The injury was no better than in the first week she treated it. He had only gotten better at pretending.

Her first impulse was to scold him. She bit her tongue before she could. Had she not been as guilty as he for hiding her own weakness? Had he any less right to protect his pride than she? No, she should not be cross with him.

Instead, her mind worked to find a solution. Food had been abundant since her return, so it was not his eating. It must be his rest, which looked to have evaded him night after night.

"What are you thinking, Edith?"

Thomas gathered the nerve to face her, but instead of finding her playful, found her pensive.

"Would you be opposed," Edith began, mindlessly folding up his shirt, "to my looking over Lucille in your place?"

"Absolutely."

The firmness of his voice surprised her.

His brow creased. "The burden is not yours. You have done more than enough." It was a subject he had wanted to bring up, and so he took the opportunity. "Finlay told me you have been working. I— You are the Lady of this house, Edith, not a maid. The springtime is much lovelier here. You should go enjoy a stroll. Or read in the library. Any book you want, I can find for you. Whatever needs attendance, I swear will be taken care of."

Edith leaned back, her arms crossed. "Magically, like my fireplace."

It was such a petty victory that she immediately regretted going for it, especially when all it meant was sharing his loss.

"I am doing no more and no less than what Lucille did as Lady Sharpe," she reminded him. Before he could interject, she added, "Which, I confess, has given me more respect for my sister-in-law. I admit I am not managing nearly as gracefully as she did. That is why I have already asked Finlay for character references from nearby areas. It will take time before I find us a crew capable of dealing with…" She gestured to the space around them. "But until then, please accept me as the poor substitute that I am."

Smiling, she leaned in again to take his hand. "Now, because it is spring, I was hoping you could make more progress on your machine. I believe it could really work."

Thomas had all but forgotten his clay machine then, and to hear it mentioned brought a flicker of light into his eyes.

"It did work," he blurted out.

At Edith's confused look, he gave a sad smile. "Right before the snowstorm… it had been working."

He recalled his one moment of triumph. After all those years of defeat, a single success, enough to bring him to tears. He had ran to tell Edith, to share his joy, but…

He never did reach her, caught in his sister's embrace first.

Edith never did get to see it.

"Well then, now is your opportunity to show me."

It was settled. Edith would look after Lucille, and Thomas would return to his machine. Hopefully such a switch would put him in better spirits and restore some of the life that had faded from him.

Edith took his folded shirt on her rise up. "How much would it take to persuade my husband to stay with me tonight?"

"Not much at all," was the honest reply.

Pleased, Edith disappeared to the bathroom, leaving Thomas waiting on the bed. He stared at the door long after it closed, then rested his head on his knees. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still feel the trails of her fingers along his back. If she wanted him still, with even a fragment of their past passion, he could not be more overjoyed.

His eyelids fell half-mast.

When Edith returned, she found Thomas with his head on her pillow, fast asleep.

Huffing, she gave a small smile before joining him. She pulled them covers over them, nesting herself against his chest and letting the fire warm them both.


	11. Chapter 11

Someone was feeding her. The gesture was too strange, and in the haze of light, Lucille saw the face of Enola. The voice also sounded like Enola's, that soft Italian rhythm of undulating tones, as she encouraged her to drink. Drink this to stop the bleeding.

Hush, lie down, lie down. The baby was fine. He would turn out a fine boy, legitimized under her and Thomas's name. A secret, kept safe by three.

The voice was soothing, blanketing Lucille in a veil of tranquility that was almost enough to lay her to rest. And she would have rested, had it not been for a baby's screaming, the terrible screaming that could never in any way have been normal or right.

Only monsters made such noises.

_Isn't that right, Mama?_

The one feeding her could not be Enola. She was long dead, the figure in front of her reminded scornfully. Now, eat up.

Weakly, Lucille shook her head.

No, she knew what was in there.

_But you won't get better if you don't eat_, the child reprimanded, pushing the spoon closer to her mouth, forcing it in and watching with sadistic satisfaction when she choked. The evil child, killing her mother with her own poison. Yes, eat, chew. Swallow it. _Swallow it_.

No, no, no more. Where was Thomas? Where was her brother? She could no longer feel him. It was so cold without him.

Why was she so cold?

When Lucille opened her eyes, it was to the moonbeams of night. The pillow by her head was damp. Weakly, she curled inwards.

It took some time before she remembered her voice, but even when she did, her mouth and throat were dry from disuse.

"Thomas," she finally croaked, in a tone she had not used since their childhood, since the last time he saw her so weak and dependent. "Thomas, I want w-water."

And after, a hug. A kiss to her forehead. Her anger had burned out. Whatever wrong he committed, she was ready to forgive him. All she wanted now was her brother back by her side. All she wanted was to be cradled and warmed in his arms.

But the silence dragged on, her request gone unheard.

"T-Thomas?"

Hazily, Lucille gathered her strength, her hair falling in thick curtains as she pulled herself up. Her surroundings confused her. This was not her room nor any place in the attic. Her hand reached across the bedding and found nothing.

Alone.

She was... alone?

No, that could not be right. For as long as he was alive, he would never abandon her. Even at her worst, he never abandoned her, was never a few steps away from where she lay.

He… he went away to get her something. He had already gone to get her water. That had to be it.

That had to be it, Lucille thought, fighting back the grief that struck her when she continued to sit alone. Her nightgown pooled around her on the bed, slightly too large and slipping off her shoulder. In her position, she looked and felt no more than a miserable child.

Her breath shuddered. Thomas must be lost. She would just have to go to him, if he could not find his way to her.

Slowly, her bare feet made contact with the floor. After pausing to orient herself, Lucille shakingly walked to the door. It seemed like an eternity before she finally collapsed against it. Her hand reached for the handle, only to find it locked.

She shook harder, but the door remained sealed shut. Confused, she patted the wood, running her fingers against the crack. No, no, this was not right.

She did not know how long she knelt at the door, willing it to open, as her desperation and loneliness grew and grew. Where was Thomas? How had he not come to her yet?

Could it be that he was…?

The thought was too horrible to consider, so she banished it far away.

Or maybe he wasn't but simply…

That thought was even worse, enough send a sob rippling through her. No, it couldn't be. Thomas wouldn't.

They had a fight, that was all. It was natural for siblings to fight. Maybe their fights were more violent than most, and her temper was not the best, but Thomas always forgave her for that. And Lucille was ready to forgive too. Whatever angry words she threw at him, she only said them because she was upset. Never once did she love him any less, surely he understood.

Determined, Lucille staggered away from the door and toward the window. She needed to get out and find Thomas. She would get out, one way or another.

Only, the windows did not budge either.

That was impossible, how—

Lucille froze at the engineered lock. The American was not capable of such a design. But her brother, she could recognize his work from a mile away.

Hyperventilating, Lucille stumbled back, falling hard on the floor just short of the bed.

Thomas… Thomas had locked her in.

Thomas had left her locked in and all alone.

Alone and trapped.

Her eyes wildly darted across the room, searching for a tool, a weapon, yet finding nothing but calculated barrenness.

Alone and trapped, just like at the institution.

Her breath choked.

Except Thomas was not coming to rescue her this time.

.

"Oh, wait, that's not right." Thomas brought the napkin to his mouth, before swallowing and gesturing for the tray.

Edith's dress came to a sweeping stop at the kitchen table. Her eyebrow rose as she watched Thomas take a scone from his plate and put it on hers.

"The numbers... they need to be even," he explained sheepishly, as if he understood the absurdity of his request but hoped she would indulge him all the same.

Slowly Edith nodded, and Thomas gave her a smile of gratitude.

And so, she was off with a breakfast of all evenly paired things.

Ever since Edith overtook the duty of caring for Lucille, she had become acquainted with her sister-in-law's increasing list of idiosyncrasies, the peculiar rituals and habits that Thomas endlessly indulged her in. The lullabies and nursery rhymes. The herbs that needed to be sprinkled in her bed.

If she thought her husband was not the most normal in behavior, Lucille was… well.

Propping the tray on one arm, Edith reached for the key to Lucille's room. She gently pushed the door open and was ready to step in when—

Her blood went cold.

The tray fell to her feet, as she stared at the empty bed.

Heart pounding, Edith stepped past the ruined breakfast and into the room, scanning for signs of Lucille.

But the room looked empty, from ceiling to floor.

Edith paused at the soot on the rug. Immediately, her gaze flickered to the fireplace. No way. She craned her neck. Escape through there could not be possible… could it?

The door slowly creaked closed.

The sound of something cracking, of something sprinkling onto the floor.

Edith spun around just in time to see a blackened log slam hard into her side.

The blow knocked her down to the floor. Before Edith could react, fingers yanked her up by the hair. She felt her head slammed back down.

Her world was ringing.

Edith felt her head lifted up again.

_No_.

With blazing determination, Edith flipped and yanked her attacker down onto the ground with her.

Lucille fell in a graceless heap. The illness had left her without any strength in her movements. Instead, she moved by sheer will alone, driven by malice and spite, ruin and despair.

Gasping, Edith forced herself up. She reached the door first and managed to slam it shut before Lucille could get her arm through. Pressing her whole weight forward, Edith locked it despite the violent bangs from the other side.

Done, Edith slid down, not caring if she ruined her dress in the porridge. She flinched at the blood-curdling scream from the other side, the scratches of fingernails against the door.

It was okay, Edith reassured her hammering heart.

Lucille was bound by flesh. It was not possible for her to burst through the thick wood.

Wincing, Edith touched her scalp and found fresh blood. She didn't need the mirror to know of her new patch of baldness. In the end, she had no one but herself to scold for not seeing this coming.

.

The clay machine would not start. Thomas had not the faintest inkling why. Actually, no, he had enough reasons to fill a page, all of them enough to make him hold back a frustrated sigh.

He caught a figure exiting the house. It was Edith, who presumably had finished feeding his sister and came out to see his machine work as promised. Her visit was premature and filled him with a gut of nerves.

He was not ready. The machine was not ready. All she would deduce from its current condition was another disappointment and failure.

"Edith—!" Thomas intercepted her midway, only to freeze at the sight of her nursing her head with a wet rag.

"Your sister," she mumbled in slightly peevish tone, "is back."

Thomas did not know which would be more inappropriate for him to do at that moment—to laugh or cry.

Edith felt only marginally more secure returning to face Lucille with Thomas at her side. Before they entered, she mentally reaffirmed she had left nothing dangerous behind in the room. That there was no conceivable way the woman could overpower them both. Her hand reached for her pistol, loaded and ready. Better safe than sorry.

Exchanging a nod with Thomas, she unlocked the door. While he went inside, she stood guard.

"Lucille?" Thomas asked cordially, letting his voice identify himself. A small hope that, perhaps, he would be more likely spared an attack.

The log lay abandoned on the rug. The bed was still empty.

He glanced away from the back of the door, which had been empty too. His expression went gentle when he found his sister huddled in a corner, destitute and covered in soot.

"Why are you there, Lucille?"

Edith watched warily as Thomas knelt beside his sister.

Slowly, Lucille raised her head, making blank eye contact.

"Thomas?" she whispered.

Thomas did not miss the redness underlining her eyes, how cracked her voice was. How parched.

Smiling weakly, he said, "Yes, it's me, Lucille. Come, let me take you to the bed?"

She stared at his open arms. But she did not move, her expression blank. She looked at the face of her brother.

In her delusional state, he would have been indistinguishable from an angel. Destined to spread his wings and fly. And she, bound to this earth, destined to rot.

Mindlessly, she twirled the hair in her fingers. Had it been a foolish dream, to believe they could be together forever? To believe his promises whenever he kissed her tenderly in the night?

Growing up, he had been so good, it made her hurt. So patient, so obedient, so kind. And she, so restless, so rash, so naughty. He had been so good, and she so wicked, two children born to one fate, bound to one fate, yet their natures diametrically opposed. No matter how hard Lucille tried, she could never pass God's tests, only make Thomas fail his. No matter how much she wanted to, she could never climb up to him, only drag him down to her.

All because she hadn't wanted to be separated.

Because she loved him, loved him until it burned and ached.

Loved him far more than herself. Loved him until she had nothing. Was nothing.

Shaking, she reached up to accept his embrace, looping her arms around his neck.

Even now, he was gentle with her. Ever so gentle.

Why couldn't she be like that?

Blonde hair caught the light, long thin strands interwoven into thicker black.

Edith saw it too late. She could not even react until Thomas had already fallen into Lucille's hold.

Fallen, fallen, trapped in the widow's nest.

His life, violently seized by the gold silk of his beloved wife.

Lucille no longer looked at him, but directly at Edith, dead eyes daring her. Daring her to just try and send a bullet her way.

Her beautiful brother would gladly catch it first.


	12. Chapter 12

"_NO!_"

Edith stopped in mid-step, halfway into hysteria when Lucille twisted the hair tighter, pulling Thomas in by the neck. Her eyes were frigid, her expression deadened.

No, no, no. Lucille would _not_.

The hair pulled tighter. Thomas's back arched, his hand weakly trying to dig under his noose. Lucille would.

"Stop, _stop_!" Edith could not find her breath. No, please, stop it now. Let him go. He did nothing wrong. He did nothing but love his sister. Love her in health. Love her in illness. Didn't she love him back? Didn't she love him?!

"What do you want? _What do you want?_" Edith was screaming. Begging.

None of it had any effect.

Lucille was beyond the reach of words. Even if she did know what she wanted, she had no understanding of how to say it.

But Thomas did. And for that reason, his struggles stopped. To Edith, he gave a silent plea.

Her frantic eyes caught the word on his lips.

_Go._

Go? Go?! How could she go? Leave him to his death?! Just turn her back and close her eyes?

Edith wanted to cry. But what else could she do?

And there was that reassuring look again. That everything would be fine, even as the hair twisted tighter, constricting him. Edith would simply have to put her faith in him this time.

Her breath hitched, finding no more air than Thomas could. Finally, she forced herself to break her gaze, ignoring her blurring vision.

The door slammed shut.

Thomas closed his eyes. He forced his body to remain calm.

If he had his voice, he would call his sister's name once more, to tell her she had him now. That he was here. That they were together again, as she wanted.

But he did not have his voice, so he used his remaining strength to find her hand and enclose it with his.

It took time for Lucille to register the touch. It took even longer for her to break out of her trance. For the voices to leave, for her to see her brother in her lap. See what she was doing to him.

She retracted as if burned. Hair floated down in harmless threads.

Thomas fell as limply as a doll.

"Thomas?"

Crawling forward, she grabbed his arm. Wide eyed, she shook him.

"Thomas?!"

Before Lucille could fully panic, his chest rose. He gasped and coughed, his eyes open as he strained to take as many deep breaths as possible.

"Oh Thomas," Lucille cried, hugging him tightly. "You startled me. You… you scared me!"

He breathed more, before slowly returning her embrace. "I…" He swallowed, and breathed again. "I'm sorry."

"You left me alone," she said. "I was so alone."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

She said more things, some less coherent than others, and he apologized for those too, holding her and stroking her hair. There was half-dried blood on her scalp, from where she plucked herself, yanked and tugged until she ripped herself open.

And he was sorry once more, and also secretly thankful that it had been he who stepped into the room and not Edith.

When Lucille finally calmed, he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. All of her whines and whimpers, he returned with hums of understanding, letting her hold onto him as tightly as she wished. His sleeves were blackened with charcoal, his face and arms streaked like hers.

Behind him, the door opened.

While he soothed his sister against his chest, his wife stood in shambles, dried streaks of tears on her cheeks. A fractured smile broke out at the sight of him safe, betraying her overwhelming relief.

"Edith," he whispered, ignoring how the grip on him hardened at the sound of that name. "Would you please bring us a cup of water?"

Edith looked confused by the request. Her feet refused to move, refused to leave him, but her heart skipped, suddenly in doubt, uncertain of herself and her place.

In the end, her footsteps faded down the hallway. Thomas had not missed the suppressed hurt on her face. He tried not to think too hard on it, his attention returned to Lucille.

"Why did you do that?" Her nails dug into his skin. "Why did you ask her?"

"Because you're parched, Lucille," he whispered softly.

"It'll be poisoned."

"It will not."

"How will you know?"

"Because I will drink it too."

He smiled at her smile. Her fingers stroked his cheek, then down to his neck, where angry lines weaved across like a darkened collar.

"You won't leave me, Thomas?"

"Never," he promised.

He couldn't.

Appeased, Lucille lay back down. She wished the American would come back quicker now, wished she would dump the whole canister into her glass. Lucille would enjoy the look on her face, savoring her victory in her final fading moments. And Thomas, hers.

Forever hers.

.

Edith moved the pot back on the stove, then off again. She ran it under the water, for no reason than to busy her trembling hands. She had made the meals. She had done the dishes.

Thomas still had not left Lucille's room. Of course he would not leave her room. His sister had finally regained her mind. He must be joyous. And Edith… she would be lying if she said she shared his sentiments.

Her thoughts distracted, she did not notice the water splashing off the bottom of the pot and onto her dress. Cursing, she turned the tap off, then tried to wipe the wetness off her to no avail.

It did not matter. Her clothes had been ruined since the morning anyway. She unfastened her skirt and angrily tossed the heavy fabric onto the table, then collapsed miserably onto a nearby chair.

She buried her face into her palms, not caring if anyone caught her in her petticoat.

Why was she shaking? Why was she surprised? It was not as if she did not know the type of woman Lucille was, crazy and extreme and _sick sick sick_. It was not as if she did not know that everything would turn out like this with her around, a neverending nightmare of violence, dancing on the line between life and death with reckless abandon.

And Edith had still chosen to bring her back.

Just when she and Thomas were getting closer, too. Just when she had started getting used to the feel of his presence around hers. The sunlit smiles in the mornings, the crinkles in his eyes.

"I'm a fool," she breathed, half in laughter, then half in tears, her arms cradling her middle.

Sweat dripped down her neck. She held onto herself tighter. Edith did not react when the front door sounded.

"What is it, Finlay?" she asked, not looking up.

"The machine, milady. Will the master be returning to it?"

"Not tonight. Lucille had woken from her fever. His presence is needed upstairs." A pause. Before Finlay could leave, Edith looked up and asked, "I was told it worked? The machine."

Here, Finlay smiled.

"Aye."

"Would… would it be possible for you to show me?" Edith stood up now. The noises and grumbles, the steam and turning gears—she suddenly missed all of it dearly. "I want to see it."

Finlay shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The winter did a number. It won't start."

Oh.

"For the amount of work to restore it, we would need at least five to eight men," Finlay continued politely, and Edith understood.

Without another word, she retrieved the money and told Finlay to find her husband a proper crew come morning. In the meantime, she could use his company, if he did not have any objections. He did not, already seated across the table.

Their conversation was good-natured and mild, about Cumberland and the countryside. Edith listened with interest to his stories of the Sharpe siblings as children.

Very bright and talented, both of them. Some would even say too bright, easily outpacing most of their governess's teachings. Thomas was an avid reader, his mind always curious about new thoughts and ideas. Lucille was considered a musical genius, having composed her first piece at the age of six. In earlier springs, you could catch them rolling in the moors, braiding wreaths of grass to crown each other's heads.

The fondness in Finlay's voice reached Edith, softening her temperament. In the stories, the siblings sounded so very blithe and… normal.

As if reading her thoughts, Finlay turned to the snowdrops between them. As she may have experienced last winter, the land here could be harsh. Plants didn't always find themselves growing in their ideal conditions. And so, they needed to adapt to survive.

To not be eaten, they might turn bitter. To not be plucked, they might wear barbs. In the face of the cold, they might shrink and bend, huddle and cower.

Smiling, Finlay inched the pot into the light. So docile and demure, these flowers. Yet, they broke through the frost year after year, long after the tall and vain had perished.

Such were the subtleties of nature.

.

Edith nearly collided with Thomas in front of the door to her bedchamber. Their bedchamber.

It caught both of them off guard, she nearly dropping her candle. Edith was not expecting him to join her tonight. Neither was he, apparently, who looked less the master of the house and more a servant boy caught sneaking after hours.

"Edith." Besides her name, no other words seemed to be able to come out. If he had prepared a presentation, he had forgotten it in her abrupt appearance.

His shoulders lowered. "Lucille fell back asleep. I… I wanted to check you were okay."

"I'm okay," Edith said quickly, tightly, snatching the excuse out of his hand and throwing it over her shoulder. It had not escaped her notice that they were both whispering.

"And you?"

The lighting was dim, and Edith did not have her glasses. Her hand touched his shirt collar, pulling it down.

He swallowed, feeling her fingers trail down his neck.

"Alive," he joked lightly.

"Alive," she echoed. She stopped at his pulse.

They should have opened the door first.

Edith ended up having to fumble for the handle, blind, with Thomas's mouth on hers. Their bodies were flush against one another, her breasts pressed to his chest, his hand on her lower back.

The fireplace was not lit. That was fine. Edith welcomed the darkness, the obscurity. It only heightened the pleasure, the rawness and strength in every breath exchanged between them. Her back met the bed. With the way she locked him in her embrace, his weight followed not soon after.

_Finally, finally…_

His knee had sunk between her legs. Her hips rolled up to meet him, eliciting a gasp from them both. In their break for air, she caught sight of his expression and wondered why she had waited so long for this, why either of them bothered to hold back.

A dark desire hit her then, something primal. Slowly, she slid her thigh up, a deliberate move up his leg and against the fabric of his trousers. She was rewarded with another gasp. His muscles tightened as he gripped harder at the sheets beside her head, a desperate attempt to hold onto his control.

What he did not know was he had already surrendered his control at the door. He was at the mercy of desire now. At her mercy.

"Wait…" he managed to breathe out. By then, he was already shuddering against her, his eyes wide but unfocused. Lost.

Then, fear-stricken.

"She'll know."

Their bodies flipped.

_She'll know._

Edith's lone thought was…

_Good_.

Let her know. Let the whole world know, like how they knew the moment he extended his hand to her for the waltz. Of who would take him as his partner. Of who had the honor of this dance.

Didn't he want to dance with her? All those months of courtship, of insufferable wait and want, exploiting every excuse to get closer, pushing the bounds of propriety just to steal another look, another touch.

They could touch as much as they wanted now. It felt so good when they did. Anywhere, everywhere, as her lips fell back on his lips, his jaw, down his neck along his pulse. The things he had done during their night at the post office, the heaven he had given her in her memories. She craved it. Craved him. How much she craved him.

Her hand pressed against his chest, firm and rising with every hitch in breath. Thomas could feel the curve of her body as she straddled him, the softness of her hair. Everything felt like a dream, all of his heart's desires exposed. He should be happy.

He should be happy to the point of tears.

She wanted him.

In this time, in this place, she wanted him.

Everything was telling him to seize the moment. Hold it close, hold it dear. Sear every second into his soul. The shame would brand him just as hot.

Too many times had he dreamt of this in the months of Edith's absence. Too many times had he woken up to the twisted pain on his sister's face. His sister, whom he had given his promises and vows, whom he had betrayed and was betraying again. He had left her all alone.

He couldn't do this to Lucille. It would anger her.

_No worse than in the past_.

It would hurt her.

_Too late for that too_.

"I want to be honest." If nothing else, then that.

It was barely a whisper, easily lost to the wind. Yet somehow it had the power to silence a tempest, freeze every touch. Edith stared at him with wide eyes.

She rolled off with a slump.

They sat side by side, neither breaking the silence.

On the distant pedestal table, a lone candle burned. Sometime earlier it must have left her hand for his without her knowing.

"Give me a few days."

She met his gaze. It pled for her patience, her understanding. Just a few days, then he would do anything she wanted. He would make it good for her.

She broke their kiss and nodded, forcing herself to let go of his shirt collar. Forcing herself to remain still until he was gone.

Her thighs were still damp. She rolled onto her side, holding his pillow to her flushed face.

And then, she screamed.


	13. Chapter 13

As Thomas had promised, Cumberland was lovely at the height of spring. The eastern winds breathed life across the moors, leaving behind vibrant greens and wistful yellows. The lands were meditative and free, stretching from one horizon to the next—a prison for the socialite, and a haven for the recluse.

And so, Edith took her adventures outside, leaving the house for long walks of solitude. Thomas knew it was to give him privacy with his sister, and for that, he was silently grateful. Handling Lucille was a delicate task. It required time. It required patience. But it wasn't impossible.

If Lucille ever acted cruelly, it only spoke of the cruelty of her world and of his own shortcomings. No matter how awful his sister looked from the outside, Thomas never forgot her capacity for reason and kindness. How she hugged him under the blankets during thunderstorms, or brought insects indoors to save them from the cold.

It wasn't impossible, he convinced himself. He simply needed to bring out the good within her. And to do so, he first had to restore her to civility. He cleaned and clothed her. He brushed her hair from the ends, loosening all the knots and tangles that had accumulated from her lengthy illness.

Since childhood, he had always brushed her hair. It soothed them both.

"...and Paris," he was saying, his voice as soft as a lullaby.

Lucille had her head rested on her hands, which were cupping her knee. It was the position she often adopted in her youth, whenever Thomas read her a book or pampered her in the lazy haze of noon.

"It's just some city," she said.

"...that is _different_," he appended. He leaned over her neck, and she caught his twinkle of excitement. "New."

Her expression softened. "When we are financially situated… I suppose the two of us may pay a visit."

_The two of us_.

Thomas bit his inner cheek, the gears in his mind spinning for the right angle, the right approach to the conversation he wanted. Some way to get his sister to open her mind, just a little.

After all, he was on borrowed time. Edith had been more than generous. She had given her trust and her faith. She had saved his sister and nursed her back to health. All the things he dared not ask, she had done for him.

And now, it was his turn to give something back. Thomas had noticed her increasing restlessness and knew it would be inappropriate to make her wait any longer.

He had to try. No matter how uncomfortable it was, he needed to face this.

"The machine will solve the finances," he said gently, pretending to be concentrated solely on her hair. "Remember? We did it. We got it to work."

The memory of its success seemed to lighten his sister's mood more, and he supposed this was as good an opportunity as he would get. Inhaling deeply, he took the plunge.

"Edith has told me she will give us the initial capital to reopen the factories once it starts running full time." He felt Lucille stiffen but pushed on. "I know it hadn't been the plan to let her stay with us. I acknowledge my errors, and I apologize for being dishonest in my intentions from the start. I apologize for the grief my decisions have caused. I never wanted to hurt you, Lucille. Will you believe me?"

Lucille's fingers continued to crumple the sheets beneath her. Whatever spell she had been under was gone, the lone word sending her wide awake.

_Edith_.

Lucille did not respond well to the name. By then, it had become forbidden for him to ever speak it in her presence. If it were possible, he would take his silence, or at least wait until she was further into her recovery, when happier memories could put more distance behind the painful ones.

But he had tied his own hands when he made his promise to Edith. All he could do now was wait and accept the repercussions.

Lucille still said nothing, her grip tight.

After some time, the rest of his words sank in. Her shoulders lowered slightly.

It had Thomas strung on hope.

False hope.

"I will when you kill her."

Slowly, Lucille turned. With lowered eyelids, she watched the devastation on his face and his quick attempt to hide it. She had not said what he had been hoping to hear.

Lucille was insulted that he thought she would. She was his sister, not one of his smitten wives. The sweet words, the earnest confessions… she knew exactly when he was trying to lull someone, when he was trying to manipulate a person into conceding to his wishes, wishes that Lucille knew all too well.

She would not have it.

Swallowing, Thomas dropped his gaze. A part of him was shaking, telling him to say no more. He should heed the warnings in his sister's voice. It would do no good to incite her wrath by pressing the matter.

As for Edith... he would just have to find excuses to leave Lucille to see Edith. And excuses to leave Edith to see Lucille.

_And how long will that last_? How many excuses before violence erupted once more in this household of two women, his body carrying the scent of both.

Thomas had learned his lesson. He had three times to learn it.

He forced himself to try again.

"She knows. Don't you see, Lucille? She knows everything about us, but she hasn't done anything we feared she would."

Nothing they feared and everything they hoped. In this world was another person who understood them, who had the capacity to feel what they feel. A person who, despite everything they had done, was still willing to help them. Surely by now Lucille had realized that too.

He gave a weak smile. "She's on our side."

Lucille clenched her jaw. She was not in the mood for this. She did not have the health for this. This was her day of peace, her day of rest. Her brother should have known better than to ruin it. He should have immediately dropped the topic when she gave him the chance.

But he was insistent, not caring for her displeasure, not caring for anything except his precious _Edith_.

Fine. If he wished to settle this, they would settle this.

"Tell me, Thomas. Exactly what kind of arrangement do you have in mind?"

Thomas nearly flinched at the sharpness in her tone. But she had not dismissed him, and he scrambled to seize the opportunity.

"Edith is willing to invest in the machines and mines. She's willing to help us fix the house and hire servants to run it again. With her, we can survive. We can start anew. It's everything we sought, isn't it? So please Lucille, may we let her live with us?"

_As my wife_.

He didn't dare to say that last thought. He didn't need to; Lucille could hear his love pouring out with every word, his heart infested with nothing but _Edith, Edith, Edith._ The American had breathed her name into his lungs, pumped it into his blood, written it across his skin. In a single night, she had corrupted him, intoxicated him with a lust that came and usurped three decades of loyalty and faith.

For _Edith_, he had been willing to betray his own sister. For _Edith_, he had burned everything they had worked for, destroyed everything they had.

For _Edith_, he had left them to _die._

Left Lucille to die…

Lucille had endured the belt and the cane. A thousand strikes on her body, and she could endure a thousand more. She could not endure this.

"And what will become of me?" she asked tightly.

She nearly laughed at his reaction. It was clear he had not given her any thought at all.

"You will live with us," he said.

"As her prisoner." Before he could argue otherwise, she continued, "Bound and locked, without title or money, dependent on her charity for survival, a charity that is only kept by my good behavior… and yours. No, I will not have it!"

"Lu—"

His head snapped to the side. Thomas did not dare move. He spoke no more.

Shaking, Lucille lowered her hand. "You've got your dance. Your wedding. You've even slept in her bed and let her fuck you." She spat the last words with vitriol. "You've had your fun, and now you have the audacity to pretend to come bearing fine propositions, painting your little infatuation as some grand savior of this family. That woman does not save us. Her wealth might have, but tell me, Thomas, how is that going? Has she signed it over to you? Or is she currently making you beg for every shilling? You want to acknowledge something, acknowledge the selfish, ingrate whore you are. You want to repent, then fix your mistakes and _kill_. _HER_!"

She punctuated with a slam of the brush into the opposite wall. Thomas flinched at the unforgiving noise, a crack that was as sharp as their father's whip, as harsh as their mother's cane. He had stirred up the rage.

He should not have pushed. He should not have spoken.

He should have known better.

"No."

His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

When he looked up, he saw Lucille's stunned expression.

"Edith has as much of a right to life as we do."

His words sounded strange too, as if they were not his own. They might have come from one of the many books he read. Or perhaps one of the great cities he visited. Wherever the source, it was not from this house.

Slowly, Thomas removed himself from the bed. Lucille watched him collect the pieces of the brush, his movements unnervingly calm.

"And Carter Cushing's wealth rightfully belongs to his daughter. Not us. Not me."

He gave the broken handle in his hands a sad smile. In truth, the idea of the wealth belonging to him had never crossed his mind. He had been honest that day in Cushing's office. He only wanted Edith. Just Edith.

As long as he was by her side, he did not think much of his status or position. Even if she saw him as little more than a charity case.

Lucille never quite recovered.

"You lovesick fool." It was a futile barb that dug into her heart more than his. His feelings had long stopped being a secret, if they ever were to begin with.

This decision was all Edith. And simultaneously, more than Edith. He would not harm her simply because...

"It's wrong, Lucille," he explained softly.

Lucille could not understand what had happened. It felt like she had been struck, but that could not have been possible. Thomas rarely raised his voice, much less a hand. He was still standing unsettlingly distant from her, his expression not marked by cruelty but kindness.

The lock unbolted. Lucille had not even noticed the third voice in the background until the American came in.

"I heard a noise. Is everything okay?"

Edith's eyes fell to the indent in the wall, then the brush in Thomas's hands. She looked past his reassuring smile to the new bruise forming on his cheek.

Chest rising, Edith shot the woman on the bed a frigid look. Her tone undercut her politeness, and she all but slammed the door shut behind her and Thomas.

Had Lucille been more gathered, she might have used the opportunity to attack. Instead, she was left staring numbly at the locked door.

In the hallway, Edith fought to keep calm. "I take it she did not agree."

"No," Thomas admitted. "But she knows."

And that was the most he could have expected to accomplish. He would accept the consequences with his sister later. What mattered now was keeping Edith pleased and not bringing her more trouble.

Edith had days' worth of unspoken words, essays upon essays that she had rehearsed throughout her walks. All of them wilted in her throat as she stared at him, who looked fragile enough to break under a single touch.

Shoulders lowering, Edith said, "I want to show you something."

Thomas stopped short of the last step down the staircase.

At least half a dozen men were gathered in the foyer, many of whom were familiar faces. They straightened at his appearance.

"William, Henry, Frederick!"

"I thought you might want these fine men back," Edith explained, as Thomas exchanged warm greetings with the crowd. "To help with your machine."

Thomas looked back at her with a mix of bewilderment and pure elation. Unable to restrain himself, he lifted her off her feet. Her dress swept the air. Edith giggled, far less embarrassed than she should have been, given their audience.

He set her down.

"So you'll get to working on it."

"Immediately."

"Better not catch you dallying," she teased, stealing a small kiss. If he thought he had been bold in flaunting their affection, he had forgotten about his American wife. To the crew, Edith smiled. "You gentlemen will keep him busy, yes?"

Thomas chuckled along with the rest of the men. The following conversations were equally light-hearted, but the message was clear. His attention was to be on the machine now, his visits to Lucille over.

As if sensing his doubt, Edith placed a hand on his chest. He saw the softness in her expression and convinced himself it was for the best.

She had trusted his judgment.

Now, he had to trust hers.

.

When the lock unbolted, Lucille straightened, expecting her brother.

It was not him.

The door swung open to reveal Edith. Lucille was prepared for that too.

Her plans were ruined as soon as she saw who stood behind her.

Outsiders.

Lucille instinctively retreated when they stepped in.

There were three townsmen in total: two men and one elderly woman. One man stood by the door while another stood guard against the wall. The woman carried a tray.

Lucille's gaze darted back and forth between them. She clutched the sheets, inhaling deeply, understanding that they had her trapped. They were all watching and waiting, waiting for some excuse to pin her down.

Edith was watching the most carefully. Lucille wanted to laugh. She almost did.

The next day, it was the same procedure. The old maid clothed and fed her. The men stood guard. Edith watched. Her brother was nowhere to be seen. Nor did he come to her at night. She was left to sleep alone. She did not sleep.

Just when Lucille feared the worst, she finally saw Thomas again. But he did not come to her. He spoke cordially and gave polite one-sided conversation. He asked if she was comfortable, or if there were something in particular she would like to eat. But never once did he leave Edith's side. And when Edith left, he left too.

Another night.

Lucille curled inwards, her spine bare and exposed. Thomas… she needed Thomas. She needed his touch. She needed his smell.

Why was he not coming to her?

_Because men sleep with their wives, silly, not their sisters._

_Because what he has with you… well, it's just wrong._

Without her brother, Lucille found herself in other company. This one was the most irritating of them, one Lucille thought she had rid of ages back.

But no, the wraith was back, the shadow of a little girl in her thin, mocking whistle.

_It's wrong._

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

It was over. The blindfold on Thomas had fallen, and with it, Lucille's reign within Allerdale Hall. The blood on her hands was dripping. It didn't matter how hard Lucille had tried to smear Thomas's hands with hers, to convince him the crime was his, _theirs_. The truth remained that it was she who cut the strap to Papa's saddle, and she who stuck the cleaver in Mama.

_No, no, I did it for him_.

It was she who strangled the first bride, and she who bludgeoned the second, and she who cut the third.

_I did it to protect him._

It was she who smashed Carter Cushing against the bathroom sink.

_I did it out of love._

_You did it out of pride._

_I did it out of—_

_You did it out of vengeance._

_I—_

_You did it because you are wicked, Lucille Sharpe. Because your soul is black, and your heart is black. Even your own brother, you were willing to pull down to your depravity._

The shadow had gone from far to close, off the wall and onto the bed. Lucille could feel herself touched by its presence. She tucked in her legs. Shivering, she violently crossed her arms and forced her eyes shut.

Like how her brother always shut his eyes.

Did she think she would not remember, the way her poor brother trembled under her touch.

The wraith was upon her body now, whispering her dark secrets back to her.

It was she who kissed Thomas, and he who let her. It was she who commanded him to kiss her back, and he who obeyed. Her brother always obeyed, and it was his obedience that she twisted into compliance, then again into want. The lies flowed much more easily once his body got used to it.

_How cruel you are, to cast your own shame upon him and have him believe it his. How clever, to chain him to you with his own guilt. But that won't work anymore. Someone has freed him._

Edith Cushing.

That name had infected Lucille's own skin. Her fingers clawed into the bedsheets.

For all his talk of a future, Thomas did not seem to be able to picture it very well. Strange, because Lucille could see in it perfect clarity.

It was white and sunbright, a manor with trimmed hedges and flowing gardens, a field of grass filled with butterflies. There would be long woolen socks and floating lace, two children running into the embrace of their father. And descending from the other side of the carriage, the beautiful mother, the bonny American wife with the golden hair.

Lucille could see everything. The chef preparing the pastries. The coloring books on the rug. The yipping dog. The way she held his arm in their afternoon walks, the way he melted into her kiss.

Edith saw this future first. Lucille saw it second. Only Thomas had yet to see it, was unable to see it, because he was still trying to design everything around a gear that had no place and no purpose. He was still thinking in terms of three in a story designed for two.

But the day was bound to come. The day when Thomas stepped into the light, leaving Lucille alone with her sins. The day he knew just how wrong their childhood had been, how wrong she had been. The day he was saved and pulled into that future he had always so desperately craved.

_Only after one has seen good can they recognize evil._

Her clawing had torn a hole in the sheet, tearing it...

_Only after one has accepted kindness can they reject cruelty. _

Seam by seam...

_Only after one has fallen in love can they know…_

Longer and longer until...

…_the absence of it._

The last thread pulled.

It did not matter whether Edith lived or died; Lucille lost him either way. The sob that tore through her throat was so soft, not even her own shadow heard.


	14. Chapter 14

With the aid of a crew, Thomas could make progress on the machine again. Shovels in hand, the men dug into the clay beneath the machine to return it to level ground. At Thomas's call, Finlay would pull the lever occasionally to test the wheels, but the contraption remained firmly stuck. At least the gears moved.

Around noon, Edith came out with hot meals for everyone. The townsmen loved her, all her quirks included. Being an American mistress made her approachable, for despite her high upbringing, she was no more familiar with aristocratic life than any of the locals. They liked to ask her questions of the railroads and wild west.

After lunch, Thomas helped collect the silverware and bring them indoors. Rolling up his sleeves, he quietly did the dishes, knowing Edith had retreated to the library to rest her feet. She was still there when he finished, curled on the windowsill with letters scattered about. No doubt she was going through finances again. A few looked like they may be references.

She noticed him by the entryway watching her.

"Thomas."

She said his name warmly. He took that as an invitation to join her side, though he felt abashed as he did. His hands were empty, and he regretted not having a drink or some other gift to offer her.

Edith handed him what looked to be a paper of importance.

"This came up when I was at the bank. With all the property renovations and hire we'll be going through, they said this will be easiest. What do you think?"

Thomas read it over once.

"Where do I sign?" he said.

Not expecting such a quick decision, Edith scrambled. She found her pen buried under a pile of half-torn envelopes. The gold gleamed in the light.

Thomas took the pen and gave his signature, before handing both back.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

Edith studied him, then pursed her lips, as if she did not trust the words that might come out. Her hand left her middle, in favor of gathering her paperwork. There was plenty of work to do.

"Not this moment, no."

She took a kiss with her on her way out. Her smile passed to his lips.

Thomas watched her go.

The glow did not last long. After Edith was gone, a chill went through him, as if the warmth in the room had followed her out. The library lost its colors, the neglect in the woodwork and carpentry apparent.

Suddenly, Thomas felt a stranger in his own home. An unwelcome one. He tried not to think too much on it, making his own way outside, where the men would have presumably noticed his absence.

When he reached the foyer, he noticed someone standing in the middle of the main entryway, half-inside, half-out, their body framed by the outside light.

"My apologies, tell them I'm coming right—"

The figure did not react.

Rather, there was no one there at all.

Thomas slowed, then came to a stop at the center of the room, just beneath the broken roof. He stared at the wide open door and its unobstructed view of the outside.

Another tick of time.

Nothing.

Thomas convinced himself it was a trick of the light. As he crossed the threshold, he felt another chill, despite the high sun making the outside warmer than indoors. He kept moving.

By the machine, the crew noticed Thomas and resumed their work. The afternoon chugged away with the sounds of labor.

Thomas oversaw their progress, occasionally getting involved himself. He cranked and pulled, testing the gears and releasing the steam.

The work distracted his mind, but never for long.

Something was still present.

Next to him.

Following him.

He could feel it.

Lucille used to tell him not to be so sensitive. She never felt any of the oddities in the house, or if she did, she was even better at turning her head than he was. As long as you did not acknowledge them, they did not exist.

Except they did.

Whether he believed or not, ghosts were real.

Edith had proved that the moment she met his mother. Over time, many more had spoken to her—his dead wives and child, all his sins laid bare. At some point Edith started speaking back.

Thomas never did ask Edith about them. He feared even a brief mention of the topic would dispel whatever enchantment kept her with him. She would be reminded of the skeletons in the basement; and of him, the monster who put them there. The dead would take the opportunity to condemn his name, detailing crimes he could not deny. And talking it through, Edith would realize what a mistake staying had been, what an atrocity of a man she had married. No charming words or gestures would save him then.

No, he couldn't risk talking to Edith about it. He didn't dare.

He didn't want her to see any more of his past self. It was his future self he wanted to give her. A man of success and wealth, like her father. Honest and respectable. A good man.

He looked helplessly at his machine. Work. If only it would work. Free him. Carry him forward like the engines of a mighty train.

Finlay scratched the scruffles of his beard.

"What's next, Master Thomas?"

Thomas couldn't tell him there was nothing next. Theoretically, the machine should run now. But it remained stubbornly inanimate, leaving him stuck in place alongside it.

A wisp caught his eye. Perched at the very top of the crane, a silhouette blew like the flag of a ship. Its presence eclipsed the whole machine like an overcast shadow. It had no eyes.

Still, he could feel it staring at him.

Thomas kept his head down, unwilling to look back. To the crew, he put on a face of confidence, as if he was in control and not on the precipice of a disastrous fall.

"So what's next?" someone repeated.

Everyone was waiting.

He thought of Edith again. In the months since her return, she had seized the land and made it yield. She walked from room to room without fear. All the things that go bump in the night, she no longer ran from, but approached with open arms and made her allies.

What kind of coward did that make him.

The future had no room for a dithering boy, quivering and uncertain—and in his own birthplace, no less.

"Coal," he finally breathed, looking up. "Let me get more coal for the steamer."

Satisfied, the figure lowered its gangly arm, dissipating into nothing. Steeling himself, Thomas left the machine and the crew, slowly trekking through the fields.

He knew what awaited him ahead.

The mouth to the underground mines was framed by timbers. Beyond lay a dark tunnel that ran through to the basement of the mansion. The land was dead of plant life here, exposing the unnatural redness of the soil below. A reminder of the frigid horror that was Crimson Peak, dormant now but ready to erupt again.

No. No more. He thought of the machine. He thought of Edith. To join her in the future, he had to stop hiding from the past.

Thomas slowly clenched his fists and opened his eyes, putting on his best face of bravery.

"What do you want?" he asked stiffly.

Silence.

He stood ever more still, waiting.

For years, they wanted him to listen. It was time he did.

He would listen and brace himself for what came next. If they wanted a fight, he would fight. If they wanted to bargain, he would bargain.

Whatever it took to settle this. They could haunt him, they could feed his nightmares, they could force him into one sleepless night after the next, but they _would leave his work alone_.

That one moment of invitation was all they needed, a single second in which Thomas abruptly felt himself lose balance.

After a panicked breath, he felt it again, an invisible tug at his leg.

Heart pounding, he found his center. He forced himself to move in the direction of the pull, first five, then ten feet away.

A distant bark.

He turned his head. The sound was directionless, and yet Thomas seemed to know where it came from.

"Doggie?" he whispered, taking another step.

He felt another brush against his leg. His lips thinned into a fearful smile, as he followed what he presumed was his deceased wife's pet.

He had nearly circled to the back of the house when he lost sense of any presence. He was far enough to no longer hear the voices of his crew. He looked around. There was nothing but a few isolated trees and patches of dead grass and the endless moors beyond.

Lost, he stopped. An uneasy feeling crept up his stomach. Something about the place he was standing in seemed familiar.

When he looked up at the mansion, he understood why.

Two floors up was the window. The same window he had repaired. The same window he had peered out of when he saw the figure.

It had been standing in the same place he did now.

He stared into the narrow, visible portions of the empty hallway. To still his tremble, he gripped his own arms tightly, as he anticipated what came next.

To fight.

To bargain.

To sacrifice, though they were solely mistaken if they thought to convince him to take his own life.

Thomas misunderstood, his fears misplaced.

The dead were dead. They cared not for what he had to give, for they could never receive.

This was not for them.

The curtains spread open.

It came not from the window he was staring at, however, but from one diagonal. Standing before the oriel was something human in size and shape. It took Thomas a moment to realize that he was looking at his sister.

Lucille did not look right. She was moving strangely, without any of her characteristic elegance and control. Her actions were stilted and abrupt, as if her limbs were pulled by strings.

She never saw him, too preoccupied in her plans. It was the one part of her that could still be recognized—her bitter resolution and resolve. The resolve that helped them survive, that guided them through all of life's trials and tribulations. The resolve that was put to a different use now.

Thomas froze upon seeing what she held in her hands.

Lucille couldn't hear him.

The dead were dead. Their pages had already been turned, their tales already completed. If Thomas had any fears left, it should not be for the dead but for the living.

The machine roared. The crew cheered, Finlay waving down his young master to no avail. Thomas did not even see them, did not notice his success, as he pushed a man down in his rush to get inside the mansion.

A second scream. This one came from Edith.

It could be heard all the way from the stairs, up through the hallways.

The door to Lucille's room was wide open. Framed against the window was one vertical line and two women, fabric to fabric, flesh to flesh, waves of thick dark hair flowing down into golden blonde. The first woman, an expression of sleep; the other, wide-awake, hysterical.

"Oh God, Thomas! Thomas, help!"

Edith gave another cry when her balance faltered. She looked up her arms to Lucille.

Bare feet dangled off the floor. Without Edith, they would be dangling lower.

Thomas wasted no time taking his sister from Edith, keeping her body holstered up. He stared in horror at the noose fastened around Lucille's neck.

"Get it off her! Get it off now!"

Edith was trying. The knot was too high. The fabric was too thick. Lucille had created her weapon with finality, torn and twisted and tightened the bedsheet until it would not fail.

There was no time to run down for a knife; Edith had found Lucille only moments before Thomas sprang in. By then, the body had already swung.

Frantic, Edith helplessly looked around. Her eyes traced up the noose to the curtain rod, then to the curtains themselves.

Without another moment's hesitation, she grabbed the curtains and pulled herself up. She managed to wrap one shaking hand around the rod, then both.

It was not enough. Her weight alone was not enough. Finding her strength, Edith pressed her good foot against the wall. She held on tighter and yanked.

That did it. The bolt snapped free from the wall, sending one end of the curtain rod swinging down. Edith fell down with a painful _thud_ amidst the folds of curtains. Lucille dropped into Thomas's arms.

Together, Thomas and Edith worked to unknot the bedsheet and free it from Lucille's neck.

"Lucille! Lucille, do you hear me? Lucille, wake up!"

Thomas shook Lucille harder, his eyes stricken with tears.

"She's still breathing, Thomas, she's still breathing," Edith gasped, holding onto his shoulder. "It'll be okay, it'll be okay." She kept repeating it until Thomas stopping choking, at which point she squeezed his arm to keep him anchored, to keep him from being pulled further into the storm. He needed to breathe too.

They all needed to breathe.

Only none of them could. Not Thomas, who cradled his sister in raw desperation, begging her to wake up. Not the bride, who watched her husband fall further and further into shambles.

In the room, a twisted, angular shadow faded into the wallpaper.

Edith caught it just before it left, the wisping silhouette of the one who had led her here.

Lady Beatrice Sharpe.

The house keys were still at the door, one key in the keyhole.


	15. Chapter 15

Lucille woke up.

Her first words were what Edith feared, as Thomas's joy give way to confusion, then terror. As a man, he had been undone, not having moved from his place on the floor since Edith brought the curtains down.

"I… I don't understand. Luc—"

"Let..." Lucille croaked, her voice as ragged and ripped as the sounds from a phonograph. "Me... _Die_."

It was unclear which sibling was breaking faster. Lucille's gaze was rigid, but her lips held a quiver despite how tightly she pursed them. Her or Edith. It was either _her_ or _Edith_, and Thomas needed to choose one and be done with it. _Just be done with it_.

Lucille would rather be killed now than be forced into more forlorn nonexistence in the name of mercy, forced to watch him love another. Between that and the fires of hell, she'd take the fire.

"Don't you see," Lucille hoarsely laughed. Cried. "You want to go, oh, you always want to go, but I'm not there. I can't go. I can't follow you. _I'm not there_."

To an outsider, these were the ramblings of a lunatic, every sentence making less sense than the last. Months ago, Edith might have thought the same.

Now, Edith only heard the truth of a woman done with lies. Even more unsettling was how much she could understand from Lucille that Thomas could not.

Slowly, Edith removed the keys from the door. She enclosed them in her hand, holding onto them with a tightness that betrayed her own anxieties.

Neither of the siblings noticed her disappear.

Below, the crew were gathered at the base of the staircase, some sitting on the steps, others on the floor. Hours had gone by.

They jumped up at Edith's appearance.

"Lady Sharpe."

After her recent experience, Edith was taken aback by the jubilance on their faces. Tightly gripping his hat, one of the workers informed her of the good news. The machine. It was working.

_So it is_, Edith thought faintly, watching all the gears align and mesh in perfect harmony. Thomas had really done it.

"Lady Sharpe?"

Edith had faltered, falling slightly backwards. Her complexion did not look healthy. Concerned, the men helped bring her indoors. Once seated, she needed another moment to orient herself. She laughed.

"Sorry, it has been an overwhelming day."

She wrote their payments, congratulating them on the progress and dismissing them for the day. If they managed to intercept Theresa along the road, it would be appreciated if they passed along the message that she, too, would not be required until tomorrow.

However, it proved much later in the day than Edith thought, for as soon as she finished speaking, Finlay graced the house alongside Theresa. The Sharpe's old wet nurse, who had been engaging in a lively conversation of her own, grew quiet after one look at Edith.

She shook her head. "Oh, that child. What has she done now?"

Edith stiffly got up, suddenly wishing she had kept her walking stick on her person. As politely as she could, she told Theresa that her services would not be required today. Instead, she and Thomas would be attending to Lucille.

There was a flicker of understanding in the old maid's eye. She had, after all, lived within the old Sharpe household; it was for that reason that Edith had sought her out, in hopes that her history with the family would allow her to withhold judgment of their current situation. There were not many people who shared Thomas's patience with Lucille, and fewer who might remain after witnessing one of her episodes.

Today, however, Edith wanted everyone gone. Thomas in his current state would not be made a curiosity, nor would his distress be used for rumor. He had enough burden without the worry of appearances.

Theresa eyed Edith's pallor. "Are you sure there is nothing I can assist with?" she asked carefully.

After a small thought, Edith came back with a set of envelopes. "Would you be so kind as to mail these at the post office? It would save me a trip into town."

Theresa accepted them, clearly not expecting that request. But she pushed the subject no further and departed for her carriage.

After the house emptied, Edith closed the front doors.

Night was descending. Seizing a candelabra, Edith made her way back upstairs.

The door was still open, the Sharpe siblings inside. Neither of them moved. At some point, they might have struggled. At some point, they might have yelled.

Only after she wrapped a blanket around Thomas did he remember her presence. Remember that he was still alive. It did not look like he had much strength left to speak.

Lucille had gone silent a long time ago, blankly looking at the opposite wall.

"May I…" he whispered, "may I stay here tonight?"

His voice was mild and afraid, as if he feared Edith would say no. He wouldn't know what to do then. There was a cold finality in Lucille's eyes; she was simply waiting now, waiting for him to leave and abandon her as she knew he would. And he had no heart to bind her down.

Edith had no objection. She cleared away the scraps of the ruined bedsheet. There were no other clean ones, so she took the one from her own bed.

With it, she covered the scarred mattress in Lucille's room. Then, after one last glance back, she left. The door closed behind her, sealing the siblings in darkness.

Edith never headed back into the master bedroom, opting for the library.

A ghost was there. It watched Edith go through books to distract herself from her own pain. The bride had been carrying it for a while now, the pain.

Her husband didn't know. He only saw the leg, and when that healed, he was relieved of the worry. He didn't know about the bleeding. No one knew, except the friend in the letters.

Edith curled inwards, more sweat beading at her temple. She applied more pressure around her middle, every ridge in her hand bulging from strain. To her dismay, every month was worse than the previous—the pain worse, the bleeding worse.

Edith suspected it was a consequence of the poison, but she did not know what it had done to her. If she did, she wouldn't be here. Or maybe she would. Allerdale Hall had as many martyrs as it did demons.

Sadly, the ghost watched. It was Enola, who had the knowledge to save the bride's life, but no way to impart it from beyond the grave.

A candle's flicker later, Edith looked up. For long seconds, she watched Enola back, then innocently extended a hand as if to offer a source of comfort. Enola floated closer, and Edith found her fingers phasing through Thomas's lost son.

Tears wet her eyes, and Enola realized the poor girl may have known her fate all along.

.

ALLERDALE HALL, 1876

"Here you go, Thomas."

Thomas looked up from the paper moth in his hands to the biscuit Lucille was extending to him. He realized she must have snuck into the kitchen.

"Go on," she encouraged. "Didn't you say you wanted one?"

He did want one, though he was unsure if he had ever said that aloud. The two of them had seen a platter of all sorts of sweet delights earlier, ready for when Mama would hold her afternoon tea with guests. The desserts had looked and smelled heavenly, though Thomas knew the treats were not meant for them. They were not supposed to even go downstairs.

Sensing his wariness, Lucille plopped beside him on the bed. "Don't worry, I only took one. They won't miss it. I even moved the other pieces so it doesn't look like anything is missing at all."

The biscuit did look good.

Thomas accepted the treat with enthusiasm, though he stopped short of bringing it to his lips. The biscuit broke down the middle. He extended one-half to Lucille.

"I want you to taste it too," he said, smiling hopefully.

Kicking their feet, they ate and pretended the nursery was actually a grand garden pavilion. They were sipping tea with their own friends. Not Richard, who they decided was a boorish brute. But Alice could come, as could Hansel and Gretel.

At some point, they decided to add a sibling too, so that when they were done with the party, they still had another friend to play with. Thomas liked that idea and asked if she was older or younger.

Lucille said younger. She would be a silly little thing who'd talk to trees and chase after bunnies, and it would be their job to protect her from all the evil witches and wizards of the world.

Thomas noted that an older sister could protect them instead. Wouldn't Lucille like that better? Someone to protect her from evil?

But Lucille shook her head. She pulled the string to the paper moth so that the wings folded and unfolded, her eyes caught in a trance. It was a younger sister she wanted. A butterfly.

Slowly, Thomas's smile fell. His eyes traced over the scars over her neck and lip.

"But I want you to be safe too," he whispered.

"Oh Thomas, you shalln't worry of that." Lucille fell back onto the bed, the moth brought to her chest, its black wings over her heart. Her hair spilled like ink, crowning her a halo. "As long as I have you, not even the devil can scare me."

.

In the darkness, Thomas freed the blanket from himself and gently wrapped it around Lucille. He knelt before her on the bed.

She did not move. Whatever strength that survived her illness had left her. Even her anger was gone, snuffed like a capped candle flame.

Lucille with will was so fearsome, an unstoppable storm from which to hide and take shelter. Without will, she was simply broken. Broken skin, broken voice. A broken heart.

He was responsible for her ruin.

When they were children, the world gave them nothing. And so they promised to give each other everything. And she did. She gave him everything. Everything she had. Everything she was.

And he—he thought he did too. But then he didn't.

He took away his loyalty and gave it to someone else. Then his faith. Even his love. In an attempt to chase his own desires, he had left her empty and bare.

She never once did anything that was not for him, without thinking of him. Not once.

Thomas was tired and beaten, lost and confused. It seemed that whichever direction he went, he only made more mistakes, guilt and regret in his every footstep. It was the people he loved most who paid the price.

Lucille had been right. He was nothing but selfish.

"Lucille."

Lucille did not react. Thomas continued anyway, his head bowed.

"I made a promise to be yours. I made a promise to never fall in love with anyone else. I did not intend to break my promise, but it happened."

_It happened_. Had truth always been so unkind and honesty so brutal? He couldn't remember.

"I can't kill her." No, not can't. "I won't." More than that. "I'll stop anyone who tries." _You_.

_He loves her more_, Lucille vacantly thought. She had suspected it first, then knew for certain. But to hear it this explicitly… she didn't know her brother had it in him to be so cruel.

"But if you can let her go, then I can too."

Lucille stared at him. She didn't understand.

Everything else did. The wraiths hissed. The moths fluttered. The house wept, sinking further into the depths of red.

It was over.

The story of three had finally become two.

"I cannot control some of these..." His breath hitched. "... things I feel… but I will do all I can to make them stop. I will make sure it never interferes with your happiness again." Slowly, he took her hand and held it in his. "Our happiness." He brought her hand up to his lips for a kiss, before quelling the tremor in his smile. "Will that be acceptable, Lucille?"

_Forever together, never apart._

Their one vow through the long nights of torment, the years underneath their demonic parents. And their hands were interlaced once more, Thomas staring up at her with those deep, blue eyes and shy smile.

Lucille did not need words anymore to understand. The gesture told her everything.

Forever hers. In life and in death.

Hers.

It did not feel real. It could not be. There was the American. But the longer she stared at her brother, the more inconsequential the American became.

_Let her go._

Yes... Lucille could do that. If it meant having her brother back. If it meant being together with him again, freed from the world, freed from this hellish nightmare.

"Kiss me, Thomas?" she croaked.

He did. And he did the next thing she asked. And the one after that. He did it without hesitation. He did it without complaint.

Anything to bring the breath back into her lungs, the blood back into her veins, the light back into her eyes. She could taste the prayer on his lips, feel the desperation in his touch, everything in his language begging her to _live, please live._

_Please let me be enough…_

_Please…_

He had stilled his heart to let hers beat.


	16. Chapter 16

Edith had not meant to pass out in the library. She had a start when she opened her eyes and another small fright when she found herself watched.

"Good morning, your Ladyship."

Edith lowered her feet to the ground, her fingers massaging her temple. The sun was alarmingly high. "What time is it, Finlay?"

"Quarter past ten," Finlay answered. "The crew should be arriving soon."

Edith nearly had a heart attack. Without another moment's hesitation, she darted for the bathroom. There would be no way that she'd expose her condition before the men.

Blood swirled down the drain alongside the clay-stained water. Lightheaded, she clutched the edge of the sink, before reaching for the brush. She had to hurry; there was little time to make herself presentable.

For breakfast, she made quick cuts of bread for herself, then prepared a tray to bring upstairs. She noticed the uneven number of slices last minute and tore one in two.

Balancing the tray on her shoulder, she knocked on the door to Lucille's room.

"Thomas? Are you awake?"

She knocked again.

"Thomas?"

After rebalancing, Edith turned the door knob and pushed her way in.

"Thomas, I brought—"

Edith stopped midstep.

Lucille caught her with a solemn stare, her dark hair in waves over her bare shoulders and breasts. She made no move to protect her modesty. On the other end of the bed was Thomas, who had one sleeve slipped on until Lucille's gaze returned to him. His movements came to an abrupt halt, his grip on his shirt tightening.

His gaze remained downcast, his back turned. Edith could not see his shame. Lucille could.

"Thomas?" Edith hated how small her voice sounded, how her hands were shaking. She forced them to stop. She forced herself to step over the clothes on the floor.

It was a miracle the breakfast made it to the bed without spilling.

"Thomas?" she asked again, a little louder and more urgent, everything in her voice beseeching him to turn around and look at her. She needed him to look at her.

Lucille knew her brother could not. The evidence was all over his body as to why he could not. And Edith's forbearance, as admirable as it was, was only prolonging his torment.

"Thomas," Lucille said, and Edith's eyes snapped to hers. Lucille kept their gazes locked, her expression neutral. "Kiss me?"

Lucille did not let Thomas go until after the door slammed. Her hand coiled around his shoulder as she waited for the footsteps to fade.

Once they were alone, Lucille trailed her brother's jaw in slow contemplation before bringing him into her arms, where he lay as listlessly as a china doll. She inhaled his scent.

Beneath her fatigue, a thin smile broke free.

Lucille had won.

.

Lucille seized her opportunity for freedom. She strutted down the hallway, her long braid twisted into a bun, her gown flowing behind her like the wings of a moth.

To her pleasant surprise, Allerdale Hall had not deteriorated as much as she thought it would in the passing season. The floors were swept. The banisters were dusted. Her fingers stopped trailing down the wood in favor of something she noticed abandoned. A walking stick.

With a wry grin, Lucille took hold of it, giving it a twirl in her descent down the stairs. She continued to survey her kingdom, and noted the various repairs that had been done in her absence—gone were the broken railing, the leaking floorboards, the oozing walls. She had just about reached the foyer when someone stopped her.

"Finlay."

"Congratulations on your recovery, Miss Lucille."

Lucille's lips twitched, her gaze hard. Her free hand gathered the other end of the stick.

"Yes, I am cured, and you..." She looked at the crew gathered behind Finlay. "...are all dismissed."

One of the men hesitantly glanced over at Thomas, who had all but faded into Lucille's shadow. "But, the machine, were we not going to discuss—"

"No," Lucille said.

"But Lady Sharpe said—"

"I am Lady Sharpe!"

The walking stick made a frightful noise against the wall. The hall fell into silence.

Recomposing herself, Lucille straightened, lowering the end of the walking stick back onto the floor.

"You are dismissed," she repeated calmly.

Still, the men did not move. A few glanced questionably over to Thomas again, who looked strangely absent. His presentation, which had always been impeccable, was notably off, with a strap of his suspenders twisted and one cuff unbuttoned. When searching him for answers proved fruitless, the men returned their attention to Lucille.

"I'm sorry, but Lady Sharpe told us to be here." The Lady Sharpe who employed them. The Lady Sharpe who controlled their paycheck.

It was clear from their stance whom they held in higher regard, whom they feared displeasing more. They would come to regret that decision.

"Thomas," Lucille said, her chest rising. "Please inform these gentlemen that regardless of what _Lady Sharpe_ has told them, this is nonetheless a trespass upon your property, and they must remove themselves immediately."

That settled, Lucille readied to leave.

But her triumph faded to confusion, then horror, when Thomas's voice remained missing.

"Thomas?"

Thomas could not look at her. He could not look at any of them.

Lucille grabbed him by the arm until he was forced to show his face, and it was in that moment that she saw it again—that stupid love, that grievous love, the cause of all his ruin and hers. Her breath hitched.

"_Thomas,_ _what have you done_?"

.

There was no need to ask why he had done it. Thomas would have signed his soul over to Edith if she so wanted, carved open his chest if she so asked.

They were too late. Edith was gone. Lucille tossed through all the letters in the master bedroom and knew Thomas's signature was gone as well. And with it, their claim to Allerdale Hall.

They could contest, of course, but Lucille knew a dead end when she saw one. Edith was still in possession of her wealth, and those in favor of wealth found themselves in favor of the law. Carter Cushing had made good use of his lawyers in his days, a habit that inevitably passed down to his daughter. The amount of legal hoops Ferguson had imposed on them had created more headaches than Thomas's past three marriages put together.

_An extension of a father's love_, Thomas faintly realized. _Enacted through his friends, all the gentlemen of Buffalo who tried to protect her_.

Unfortunately, the Sharpe siblings had no such love from the outside, neither guardians nor shields. In disbelief, Lucille sank into the armchair. After all these years, they were back to where they had started, with neither wealth nor property, neither rights nor freedom, one despot traded for another.

Thomas knelt by her side and softly asked if she felt that was really the truth. Afterall, it had been some time since they had been beaten. Or starved. Or worst of all, torn away.

"Yes, to provide us with these simple human dignities, she could be none other than a saint," Lucille sneered.

The fact remained they were at Edith's mercy. All the generosity she had showered them with, she could just as easily retract. She could have them hung. She could leave them destitute.

Whatever insult they had inflicted upon her, Edith had the power to return a hundredfold worse. Once the shock ran its course, the anger was bound to follow. The bitterness she had tried to deny. The resentment she had tried to suppress. She was undoubtedly plotting her revenge now, toward the man who hurt her, and the woman who made him.

That was fine. If a war Edith wanted to wage, then a war she would get. The more vicious, the better. Thomas needed to see the monster that was a woman scorned. He needed to see the hate in her eyes, hear the knife in her voice. He needed his heart broken like hers. No, worse than hers.

Their charade of a marriage was over. Hopefully, for her poor brother's sake, Edith would strike swift and hard. Break him cleanly.

Lucille gently roped Thomas back for an embrace. It was back in the attic that they rested, neck to neck, from day till night, his eyes closed, and hers reflecting the flames of a hundred candles.

.

Thomas woke to the smell of herbs and the sound of music. In his palm was an enlarged moth. After making sure he had not crushed it, he delicately set the creature atop one of Lucille's many glass apparatuses.

He noticed the apparatuses had moved. Her cutting tools were not in their usual place, her dissections also rearranged. They looked like a shrine the way they were stacked, with candles alternating in between. At the center was a chain of braids, four in all, looped in a wicca circle. The sight made his knees weak. He fell back onto her bed, where dust motes erupted around him.

Shaking, Thomas convinced himself it meant nothing. For too long Lucille had been bound and bedridden; she simply missed her room. She missed touching her possessions. She wanted to reclaim them.

She would not hurt Edith.

Lucille had sworn to him on that.

She would not hurt Edith.

The music became more discernible once he had descended the stairs. It was one of Lucille's rarer pieces, with the lachrymose yet glorious undertones of a requiem. Lucille herself was in their mother's funeral dress, the one Lady Beatrice wore when the casket closed on their father. Unlike most of their mother's clothing, this gown was loose and sheen, stretching across the grand room like a shadow at twilight. Lucille looked beautiful in it.

He told her that, and she held the ghost of a smile, her fingers never leaving the keys.

And so, despite everything, Thomas was glad.

Lucille was alive, doing what made her happiest.

She deserved to be happy. She deserved to be free.

The house had been abandoned by all except the two of them. That was how it always had been and always would be. For the rest of the day, they lived as if they would never see another. They indulged in the richest foods from the kitchen, the cakes and crumpets, puddings and pies. She played him lullabies. He read her poetry. Candle in hand, they danced and danced, long after the wax had melted their hands together and the flame extinguished. And even then, they continued to dance in the dark, one step after the next, through the banging front door and charging constables.

"Sir Thomas Sharpe?"

The last beat.

A silence.

Finally, Thomas lowered his hand and turned around, ready to face his judgment.

But there were no ropes or chains, knives or guns to greet him.

Just lowered hats—

"About your wife, sir."

—and sincere apologies.


	17. Chapter 17

An Englishman with no fortune. An American with no family. Neither with any future in sight. The leaves had started to yellow when they met as strangers; the leaves had yet to fall when they left as lovers.

Tragedy had made them brash and passion had made them blind. A week before Cushing's funeral, Thomas and Edith affianced. Not three weeks later, they wed.

Autumn in New York was somber. Winter in Cumberland was ghastly. But in each other's company, the world glowed, all their miseries forgotten. In the place of pain was real, breathtaking pleasure.

Never before had anyone left Edith with such powerful sensations. His presence left her so very warm; and when he touched her—the expanse of her arm, the small of her back—her skin tingled with eagerness, her blood pulsed with want. His smell intoxicated her like strong mulled wine, and his lips, every time they set upon hers, lifted her in a whirlwind.

With him, she felt such delightful sensations, such wondrous sensations, filling her life with an incandescence that she'd never known existed. From the way he lingered, he must have felt the same.

Thomas did. He savored their moments as much as she did, craved them as much as she did, if not more. Every touch slipped him further, and it only took a single lapse in restraint to complete his fall.

He hadn't planned for it to happen. It just did. The two of them. A small room. Isolation from the outside. Staring up from his lap, she had invited him to be with her, and he had been too swept up in the moment to decline. When her arms reached up, his reached down in symmetry, the union of Eros with Psyche, love with soul.

He would have agreed to anything if it prevented her disappointment, if it kept her delight. He kissed where she wanted him to kiss, touched where she wanted him to touch. He led her as he had in their dance, gentle but firm.

Distantly, Edith had to wonder. Was it learned or instinct, his knowledge of where to guide them? The thought faded fast. His ministrations left her body without confusion, her back melting into the bed. This was good. This was right. Everything resonated, from the concerto in her chest to the heat down her navel and thighs.

Emboldened, she bundled her dress higher up her waist. Thomas did not appear embarrassed by her increasing nudity, planting a kiss against the tender skin of her leg.

Edith could not help but stare. Thomas looked stunning stripped of clothing, a study in masculine beauty. The slope of his clavicle, the pull of his muscle, the flatness from his chest to his abdomen. Catching her stare, he undid his trousers and bared the rest of himself to her.

The way he stared back made her heart pound. He was reading her desires. He was working to fulfill them, sealing her mouth with another kiss. Their exposed sex moved against one another. She felt the caress of their hairs, the meeting of his hardness with her softness.

It was good. It was so very good, their breaths heavy between kisses. He palmed and lifted her bottom higher. Her hand at his neck, she pressed closer, eager to nest his sex within hers, to pull him inside and stroke away her ache. Between her thighs was a wetness and a terrible, delightful throbbing ache.

Thomas tried to keep her waiting a moment longer, but that moment was too long. Edith was restless. Greedy. She had been spoilt, unaccustomed to things being denied or forbidden. Eunice's handsome aristocrat was supposed to have been of the few that were. And yet, here he was, on her bed, bound to her as her rightful husband.

Without warning, she seized his arm and flipped him underneath. He did not resist, his gaze never leaving her as she enclosed around him.

A lock of hair came loose from her chignon. Her breasts curved lusciously, exposed through the neckline of her nightgown. Her parted lips were a glistening rose. He was so lost by the sight that he did not notice when they stopped.

"Are you hurt?"

Thomas blinked, not sure if he had heard properly.

His smile dropped slightly, before returning, though with an added tinge of confusion. "No, why?" His heart skipped. "Are you?"

She told him he was crying. He blinked again and laughed when he realized he was. He did not understand why he would be.

"This is the best I've ever felt," he admitted.

Her concern gave way to joy, as she sank back down, cradling him between her legs. Her lips formed a smile against his. "Me too."

It just happened. And only after it happened did they realize. How much she wanted this. How much he needed this.

Outside, the snow continued to flurry. But within that small room, they were warm and comfortable, hidden and safe, free of any worldly cares. Chuckling, they flipped and tumbled, until their limbs tangled and neither knew where one ended and the other began. A fresh morning came, and with it, more kissing and lovemaking, oriental teas and oven-baked bread.

An Englishman with her fortune. An American with his family. They saw a future. They were young and alive, the world their oyster. London. Paris. Milan.

They whispered to each other of their dreams, of their grand escape, of their happy ending.

Together, they would create a happy ending.

.

The door to the room opened. Empty. Lifeless.

Staggering in, Edith fought to reach the bed before the darkness enveloped and consumed her. The laughter. The whispers. The promises. The memories of joy that once filled the walls.

She heard only silence.

Clutching her abdomen, she gave a faint, wet cry of his name.

She could only hear silence.

.

Crackling. Warmth. Every surface touched by a flickering, orange glow. Edith did not remember putting a fire in the grate.

She did not remember going to bed so clean either. The blood from her thighs was gone. All that blood, soaking the sheets under her, seeping down into the mattress. How warmly it had flowed. How coldly it had rested. Red and more red, enwrapping her within her own personal coffin.

She hadn't been ready to die. She hadn't been ready to die _alone_, cradled helplessly in bed. It had struck her, in between sobs, that she had only recently turned twenty-five.

She had never seen the world, never _lived_. She'd never attended a music hall or saw a traveling fair. She'd never raced a horse or pedaled a bicycle. She'd never gone boating or played tennis. She'd never ridden with Alan in his motorcar, down to that exciting new museum that was opening soon.

She never finished her novel. Her one work. Her one creation.

Everything she had, everything she could have had, she had given up to be with Thomas. A man who had broken her heart not once, not twice, but three times. It was on the third time that Edith knew.

She could never be with Thomas.

It was simply not their fate. No matter how hard she fought, no matter how valiantly she tried, her desires did not matter and neither did his.

The window showed no sign of light. Wavering on the ceiling was the shadow of whoever sat by the fireplace. She hoped it was one of the villagers. Her heart knew otherwise.

She didn't turn to look at him.

"Edith."

She closed her eyes.

The midnight silence stretched between them.

"Edith." The call was even softer, as fragile as a single, vibrating strand of cobweb. He pled this time.

Her hand trailed across the sheets. Her fingers hit metal, the contour of something cold and hard. She seized hold of it.

When she rose, she rose with a click.

Down her cheeks were dried streaks of tears. Beyond that, her face betrayed nothing. Anger had sealed her lips.

Thomas took in that anger. Slowly, he lowered the bowl of broth in his hands. His palms opened in surrender. He did not rise from his position at the hearth.

"Don't," he whispered. It was meant to be neither a command nor a warning. Just another plea. It was all he had now—wretched pleas.

Edith did not lower her arm. She did not know if it was to end her misery or his.

It was not fair.

She was the one dying. _She was the one dying_.

He had no right to look like that. He had no right to be here doing what he was doing, attending to her, attending to her goddamn fireplace like some goddamn servant. She wanted to scream.

_You chose her. You chose her, so go back to her. You couldn't look at me then, so how dare you look at me now._

How dare he come, how dare he swell her chest with this disgraceful hope.

How dare her traitorous heart still want him. Still cry for him to come back to her, to run away with her. He could at least offer his arms for her to die in.

_At least kiss me one last time, you coward._

The pistol lowered, her face crumbling from stifled sorrow. It was not fair.

"Is it the poison?"

Of all the questions, this was the one he chose.

But he needed to know, and when her silence gave the answer, his lips pulled into a tight, humorless smile.

"The poison I gave you."

A thin mist blurred his eyes. Thomas could not bear to look. He could not bear to look away, willing the heat from the fire to dry him.

He caught his breath and picked up the bowl again. "They told me to give you this. They said it will help you recover your strength. I don't know why I keep holding it. It's cold now and I can't—" He inhaled. "I'll ask them to bring you a new one."

His smile shook. When he could no longer see her face, he blinked and stared at the floorboards.

"You are the strongest person I've ever met. You've survived before and you'll survive again. You will live." He tightened his tremoring grip to prevent the broth from spilling. He inhaled again. "And I will confess. I will tell them the reason you are bedridden like this. I will confess to murder and adultery, and you will be freed of this godforsaken marriage."

There was no reply.

Thomas didn't expect one. He couldn't look up anymore, too consumed by shame and self-disgust now that he had said it. He had finally said it, calling his sins by their names, immortalizing them in words.

He couldn't look at her. He didn't deserve to look at her.

"You will be with people who will not hurt or disappoint you. You will have someone deserving of your generosity. Someone who has everything to give you, who can love you wholly and care for you in your times of need, not—" His voice choked out from under him. Something wet ran down his fingers. He was unsure if it was the broth.

The idiotic bowl with the idiotic broth. He did not know why he was still holding it. Since her return, Edith had not eaten a single thing that passed through his hands and she never would. More than that, she did not need to hear his pathetic babbles.

He set the bowl on the floor.

Edith watched him get on his knees.

He would take all the blame, he said. It was he who had courted her, and deceived her, and brought her into this nightmare under false vows. It was he who had put the poison in her tea and coaxed her to drink. It was he who had betrayed her. If she wanted justice, then she should punish him. Hate him. Hurt him. Let him hang.

But if she had any mercy left, he begged her to use it to spare his sister. Lucille had suffered greatly, and her suffering had made her unwell. She needed healing. She needed care. If she must be taken away, then take her to a house of God. Just not an institution. Please, anything but another institution.

Everything he possessed, he would give it all if it meant his sister could live.

His sister.

It always went back to the sister. And he, her willing martyr, her obedient lamb.

The fire crackled.

The pistol grew heavy.

Slowly, Edith lay back down and closed her eyes. She had given him the courtesy of her time, and now she wanted rest.

Thomas did not wake her.

For the rest of the night, there was only hollow silence. The room, once a nursery for dreams, had become its mortuary. The lovers within it were no more, their joy lost to sorrow, their passion withered to dust—and with it, his will.

All his life Thomas had been struck down, and all his life he had risen. Stubbornly, he had risen, not understanding that perhaps he was meant to remain down, that it would have been better for everyone had he remained down. He understood now. The extent of his wrong. The purpose of his ending.

That ending. Had he only accepted it the first time around, how much distance could Edith have put behind her? How much grief could everyone have been spared? Thomas thought of his sister, of her bitter tears over their lost child. He thought of their lullabies and wondered if they had always sounded so sad.

_We can't live in the mountains,_

_we can't live out at sea._

_Where oh, where oh, my lover,_

_shall I come to thee?_

Ghosts were real. A truth he'd once tried so desperately to outrun. A truth he now so desperately embraced.

_Don't cry, dear sister, I'll follow you wherever you go. _

_My soul is yours… _

_Forever yours._


	18. Chapter 18

Only until after they arrived in town did Lucille realize where the townsmen were leading them. The post office.

Of course. She supposed she should have known that was where Edith had run.

By the time they arrived at the scene, Edith was already cold and non-responsive, lying in a pool of her own blood. The tiny room might as well have been her mausoleum, the bedding her tomb. If death had indeed claimed her, she had not gone without resistance.

Lucille didn't bother to stop Thomas. He wasn't thinking by then. Shackle his arms, and he'd break his wrists and escape. Shatter his legs, and he'd fall to his knees and crawl. There was no need to create a bigger spectacle, not over a woman who might already be dead.

Silently, she watched Thomas gather Edith's hand in his. For every prayer he had, Lucille had three. She felt a strange mix of vexation and regret when his were heard and hers were not.

The choking relief on Thomas's face answered her question. Edith was still alive.

_But for how much longer_?

For the first time in Lucille's life, it would appear the wheel of fortune had spun in her favor. The depot manager's wife suspected an ailment within the womb. Edith was bleeding too much, losing more than she could restore, every month sinking her further into the grave. Even if this moon did not claim her, there was always the next one, and the one after.

Traveling to town by herself, with a condition as serious as this—why did no one in her family stop her? Surely they must have known?

Lucille had no words. Neither did her brother, his back hunched.

No, they hadn't known. Edith had flown into their lives vibrant and alive, steadfast and bold. She moved as she wished. She ventured where she willed. She was young and wholesome, raised upon an empire of gold and steel. Not even half a canister of poison—

Lucille's chin rose, the skeletal bindings of her gown straightening.

_The poison._

Her eyes flashed to Thomas, who did not yet seem aware of the connection; none of his other wives had survived long enough for something like this. That suited Lucille just fine, for where Thomas saw despair, she saw opportunity.

More spectators gathered at the door, peering into the tiny room. Thomas was bundling the quilt around Edith tighter, trying to keep her warm. He sought the manager's wife and begged her for water. The way he acted, it was difficult not to feel sympathy for his plight.

No one noticed Lucille take the set of house keys on the table. She blended into the crowd, then left them to their whispers.

Upstairs, Lucille found the mailing station.

"Lady Sharpe? Yes, of course." The postal clerk retrieved an envelope. "We send our prayers."

Lucille gave a thin smile, before flipping the envelope. Her heart pounded. She flipped it a second time, just to confirm. "She gave you this yesterday? Anything from the day previous?"

"Those had already been collected, madam."

Lucille had to remember to smile again, her hand clutching the mail tightly.

Small setbacks did not stop her. There was still a chance to save herself and Thomas from their downfall, and she would seize it.

Without looking back, Lucille left her brother to his role of the dutiful husband and charged out of the depot with the village's fastest horse. She rode through veils of fog, needing only the glow of a single lantern to break the darkness.

She pulled the reins before Allerdale Hall. The gates creaked open. Lucille walked under the chained skull of the Sharpe family chest, crossing the iron threshold back into her domain.

Her home. Her property. Long after everyone else had left, she would remain to cherish it, protect it, this one sanctuary where they could live and they could love. It would be ablaze in a crescendo long before it would be stolen away from her.

Her hand stiffly unclenched around the keys. No, it was not over yet. They would live, and they would love. They had done so when all others perished, and they would do it again.

Even if it meant facing the devil himself.

Lucille slammed the cage shut and made the wailing descent. The first floor rose above her head, then the floor of the basement, then seven feet of stone and soil and clay, her body coffined by darkness.

Stale, damp air opened at her feet. The elevator rattled, then made a full drop to the bottom. The cage door broke at the impact and loosely slid open.

For a full moment, Lucille stood in the black, her breathing unnaturally calm. The jingle of keys. The dripping of water.

Moonlight leaked in through fractures on the deteriorated, vaulted ceiling. It provided just enough visibility for Lucille to see but not count them. Maybe three, maybe eight, statures short and tall, children and adult.

She hit the switch.

Black flipped to angry red. The oozing walls. The flooding trough. An army of humanoid silhouettes—one hot, screaming second in which they were thrown into sharp relief, and then—

Nothing.

Lucille might still see them behind her eyelids. They might come back if she blinked.

But she did not blink. She had not even flinched.

The vats opened to reveal more thick, damning clay. She did not hesitate when she plunged her arm in, shoulder-deep, her chin and hair sinking into the clay.

And she grabbed. And she yanked. And she pulled, until out came her sins.

Madness smeared across her face and body, across the unfeeling stone tiles of the underground. Everything from then on was methodical. The rise and fall of the axe. Their screams did not faze her; she could scream louder. And she did, when she lifted a shovel and smashed them back into silence.

The pile grew. Anything. Everything. The accumulation of decades of moral debt, the plague that rotted her soul and his.

Thomas had been right. She was sick of the past binding them, defining them.

She stared at the match flame, before letting it drop.

Wax cylinders melted. Coils of hair shriveled. The bones. The tin. The cleaver. Lucille watched history blacken beyond reckoning, her crimes lifted with the smoke, her burdens swept with the waves.

Edith might be at death's door, but Lucille…

Lucille was reborn.

Through the rise of dawn, Lucille sat in front of the fireplace. She was purged, her skin fragrant with roses, her hair matted and dripping. Translucent rivers flowed down her nightgown.

At her side was a stack of letters, some she kept and others she fed to the flames. Once Edith was gone, there would be only one obstacle left in their path to salvation. The one man to witness the extent of her crime.

Dr. Alan McMichael.

Thomas was not the only two-faced member of the family. His wife kept her share of outside correspondences, of letters a tad too intimate to be shared with another man. Lucille parsed each word and sentence, decrypting every ambiguity, piecing together every implication.

The past winter had been a season of change. Her brother, for all of his stagecraft, had been pushed off the precipice. His love had broken him terribly. But Edith had found her footing. Her love had strengthened her, left her more pragmatic and prepared.

Edith had thrown herself back into the battlefield, but everything she valued, she had kept protected. Her friend, whose location Lucille could not discern. More importantly, her fortune, which would remain forever out of their reach.

The papers wrinkled in Lucille's grip. She wondered if Thomas knew. If he knew how another man would be his wife's main beneficiary, set to inherit the majority of her wealth and estates—set to inherit _Allerdale Hall_.

In vain, Lucille flipped through the other pages to see if her brother's name was listed in the copy of Edith's will. It was not. Only Cushing's old friends and employees. Construction and factory workers. Former servants of the Cushing Manor. Every additional name only fueled Lucille's contempt, until every page was tossed to the flames.

Lucille touched the bottom of the letter pile. She would have concluded there had she not remembered the unmailed letter, the one she had retrieved from the postal clerk.

The mailing address had been disconcerting.

Milan, Italy.

Gripping her knife tightly, she cut the edge of the envelope and pulled out its contents.

It was the first letter of Edith's that was written by the woman herself.

At the first line, Lucille stopped. Her finger traced back to the envelope and the mailing address.

.

_Dear Alan,_

_It is no secret that your mother and I hold no fondness for one another. So my pride suffers a hardening blow when I find her assessments of me uncomfortably prophetical. _

_A child who cannot tell fiction from reality is doomed to spend a life tilting at windmills. I always reckoned myself more of an Odysseus, though I suppose he did spend his years attempting to return home, not run from it. Maybe it is in this difference of goals that our rewards also diverge._

_I do not wish to alarm you, but I need you return to America immediately. Thank you, my dear friend, for having indulged in even my silliest of fantasies._

_Love,_

_Edith_

_._

Lucille rolled the knife in her grip, her lips pulling into a wry smile. She had found his location at long last.

The knife vibrated on the kitchen table, the letter pinned in place like a specimen for dissection.

.

Morning in town was unnaturally quiet. Lucille held tightly onto her letter, her other hand picking up the hem of her dress. Every additional stare in her direction quickened her pace.

Something had happened.

Two constables were stepping out the front entryway of the depot. Without hesitation, Lucille changed course, headed toward the backdoor.

The constables were still in view through the window when she approached the mailing station. The postal clerk, too, regarded her differently. She masked her countenance, pretending to be oblivious to the change in atmosphere.

"I brought food and supplies," she announced. "How is the poor girl doing?"

Her cordial tone threw the postal clerk off guard. His reaction calmed some of her worry, but not all. Whatever had happened, it had not warranted a yell to the authorities. At least not yet.

The postal clerk did not notice her hand dipping into her basket, how, on the other side of the counter, the letter in her hand had been replaced by a knife.

"Lady Sharpe..." It was that regrettable tone that always preambled the deliverance of bad news. "I'm sorry but Lady Sharpe is gone."

Lucille's hand froze.

"She's dead?"

Outside, the constables had walked out of view.

She swallowed back down her hope when the postal clerk apologized for his misspeaking.

"No, madam, I mean she has left. By horse, first thing in the morning."

"And my brother? Sir Thomas?" Her voice constricted at the end, her hand beginning to shake. Of all the things she had considered, Edith finding the strength to leave had not been one of them. Not that soon. Not that definitively.

Her heart pounded. Had Edith taken her brother with her? Had they escaped together? The thought was crippling.

A worse thought struck her. What if Edith had not? What, then, had she done with him?

It was a mistake to have left Thomas alone with that woman, not while he was so unprotected and vulnerable. Too vulnerable. He would not have resisted anything Edith willed.

"My brother," she repeated. "What about my brother?"

"I have not seen him come up, madam. Only Lady Sharpe. She told me to give this to him when I do."

Lucille extended her hand.

The postal clerk pulled the letter back.

"I'm sorry, madam. Lady Sharpe was quite explicit. Only to Sir Thomas, none else."

An inhale. Lucille could almost see the American behind him, staring down at her. One step ahead. Every time Lucille thought she regained the advantage, Edith moved another step ahead.

Lucille had been wrong. There was not one man to witness her crimes. There were two. And the instrument of their downfall was less likely to be McMichael than her own brother.

What had Edith told Thomas? What had she made him do? What was she telling him in the letter?

She should never have left him to that woman. She should never have let him step out of the house, out of her room—Lucille breathed. She needed to see Thomas. She needed that letter.

She needed that damned letter.

Her knife itched.

"I will deliver it to him."

"I cannot let you do that, madam."

"I am family."

"I'm sorry—"

"My sister-in-law has recently faced much distress. I am concerned that she may not have been in her proper state of mind when she wrote that letter, and that there are words in there whose damage would later be regrettable." Lucille let her words sink in. Her jaw tight, she breathed. "For my family. Please."

The postal clerk did a careful study of the woman before him. Her conviction was steel, she herself as immovable as the woman who gave him the letter.

"You will deliver it to Sir Thomas," the postal clerk finally said, sliding the letter across the counter.

Lucille half expected the envelope to scorch her hand. It did not, and she suspected this was the closest she would come to victory.

.

The fire had reduced to embers.

Thomas knelt alone before the fireplace, not reacting when the door creaked open.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

Finally, she stepped forward. His gaze slowly rose to hers.

Wordlessly, Lucille presented a folded letter. At first he did not seem to understand.

His eyes widened. With shaking hands, he slowly reached for it, fearful it would disappear like a frightened animal if he acted too fast. Fearful his own eagerness would insult her, and she'd throw it into the fire before it touched his fingers.

Lucille didn't see eagerness. She saw anguish. She saw his face that fateful night, when the villagers found them at the train station and dragged them apart, and he fought and he screamed and he cried, cried his sister's name again and again until his voice had tore itself and became part of the wind.

Lucille never wanted to see that face again.

The letter unfolded. A separate piece of paper fell out.

His thumb traced over the ink, the loops and curls that he had come to memorize. A broken sound escaped him, as did a smile that was never a smile.

Since she was young, Lucille had protected her brother. She had comforted him. Consoled him.

She had forgotten how to do that, she realized, as she watched him fracture and split and explode, explode with a storm that she feared would ravage him from the inside and leave nothing behind. He bent forward, violently hugging Edith's letter, paper that was too thin and crumpled and wet and bleeding, from where tears trailed down his arm and blossomed with the ink.

Lucille had forgotten the feeling of compassion.

.

_Dear Thomas,_

_In America, we believe that every man should be given an equal opportunity to achieve success through hard work and will. It is my belief that you have made no less effort than any of the gentlemen of New York, and that despite past errors, you have made the best of unfortunate circumstances._

_My father gave you an unfair trial. The sum I am including should be sufficient to reopen the Sharpe mines and restart your family's business operations. My sole condition is that whatever wealth you obtain from now onwards, it is only through good and honest means._

_Your investor,_

_Edith_

_._

_._

_._

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you for reading Book 1 [Written in Courage] and Book 2 [Written in Strength]. The story has reached its natural stopping point.

That said, it's not over... just yet. There is a Book 3 [Written in Freedom]. However, it will be some time until it is released. So until then, please enjoy the holiday season and the rest of the lovely Crimson Peak community.

My last gift is a song I'd like to share, one that always brings me back to the movie: Dreamcatcher by Secret Garden.


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